


30 Years of Johnlock

by BerityBaker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Coming of Age, Drug Abuse, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Kidlock, M/M, Teenlock, Time Skips, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 03:19:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 25,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3274760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BerityBaker/pseuds/BerityBaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John grow up next door to each other. And in the end there really was no one else.</p><p>Each chapter will be a one-shot, and each one-shot will take place a year apart. Updates daily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This is my 30 Day OTP Challenge, and I always loved the continuous ones. So when I did eventually get around to doing my own, it was bound to be one strung-together story. Enjoy. Comments make me happy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was asked to put the boys' ages at the beginning of each chapter, which is a fantastic idea.
> 
> 1981
> 
> Sherlock: 3  
> John: 6

Every Sunday, the Watson and Holmes families gathered their children and took them to the park. The playground there had everything, from swings and monkey bars for the older kids to spring-loaded riding toys and slides for the younger boys.

Sherlock, however, got bored rather quickly with his assigned area. At three years old, he wasn’t allowed anywhere near the monkey bars. If his parents hadn’t made that clear enough, Mycroft reminded him haughtily every week. On this particular occasion, Sherlock sat in a swing sulkily as John Watson pushed him gently forwards and backwards. He stared off towards his older brother, leaping gracefully from bar to bar.

Suddenly, he kicked out on a backward swing, catching John’s knee.

“Ow. I’m telling your mum!”

“Monkey bars,” Sherlock mumbled, just indistinct enough to pique John’s interest.

“What?”

“I wanna go on the monkey bars,” Sherlock squeaked with a slight lisp.

“You can’t go on the monkey bars. I can’t even go on the monkey bars and I’m older than you!”

“I wanna go on the monkey bars,” he insisted.

John glared at his pout for a minute, then helped him out of the swing. “Okay. But you can’t fall.”

“I won’t.”

“John, where are you going?” John’s mother asked from the bench their parents occupied.

“Slide!” Sherlock supplied enthusiastically.

His own mother smiled. “Be careful.”

Both boys nodded furiously.

“What are you doing over here, Sherlock?” Mycroft demanded.

Sherlock’s face scrunched up indignantly. “I’m gonna go on the monkey bars.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest. “You are?”

“Yes. And I’m gonna go all the way across.”

“Would you like some help?” Mycroft smirked and leaned against a post to his left.

“No! I can do it by _myself_.”

John looked up at the metal bars. “I don’t think you can, Sherlock.”

“Shut up, John! Yes I can!”

“You said a bad word!” Harry piped up, and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“That’s not a bad word, stupid!” John shot at his sister, quick to defend his smallest friend.

“Don’t call me stupid, idiot!”

“I’m not an idiot, peanut breath!”

“Shut up!” Sherlock said. He slapped John’s arm.

John backed away from his sister and turned to the ladder up to the monkey bars. Without another word, he defiantly climbed it, grabbed onto the first crossbar, swung forward, and promptly fell on his behind.

Harry cackled. Sherlock lifted his little fist and punched her in the stomach. Mycroft snorted, torn between pride in the strength of the swing, embarrassment that Sherlock had taken it, and disgust in his brother’s behaviour.

“Shut up, Harry.” The juxtaposition of Sherlock’s lisp with his bold stance finally drew a laugh from his brother.

“Aren’t you gonna try it, nappy-head?” Harry sneered.

Mycroft laughed even harder. “No, I think that’s quite enough,” he said, wiping away tears.

“I am.”

“What?”

Before Mycroft could react, Sherlock was stretching out his fingers, just barely brushing the first bar. He huffed, frustrated, then leapt forward, catching the bar, his feet swinging a good three feet above the ground.

“Sherlock, get down!” Mycroft commanded.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, half awed, half terrified of his friend falling.

Sherlock let go with his left hand, reaching for the next bar. The tiny fingers of his right hand slipped almost immediately, and he landed on the mulch below with a small thump and a crunching sound.

“Sherlock!” John and Mycroft shouted together. Mycroft ran in the direction of their parents, but John was sitting on the ground next to Sherlock in a flash.

At first, he was silent. He just stared at John with wide eyes, looking shocked that he had been betrayed by his own arms. A moment later, there were tears streaming down his face, sobs racking his whole body, and he was clutching the left one, wailing in pain.

John looked around frantically. He caught Harry’s eye and found a horrified expression. “I didn’t think he’d actually _do_ it,” she muttered defensively.

Mrs. Holmes came running, with Mycroft and her husband right on her heels. “Oh, Sherlock, sweetie,” she cooed, kneeling down next to him and petting his head, urging him to let her see his arm.

“M-mum-my,” Sherlock sobbed, and then, when she tried to touch his arm, “NO!”

He jerked away from her, jostling the injured arm and crying out.

“Sherlock, sweetie, let Mummy see it.”

He shook his head.

“Here, you can hold John’s hand until I’m done,” Mrs. Holmes said, and John immediately reached out for Sherlock’s.

Sherlock hesitantly complied. His fingers were slight at first, but quickly grabbed onto John’s thumb, vicelike.

“Oh, it’s broken. We’ve got to go to A&E. Siger, get the car.” Mrs. Holmes turned back to Sherlock. “I’m going to lift you up, now, sweetie. Can you let go of John’s hand?”

“No!”

“Now, Sherlock, we’ve got to get to the car somehow.”

“No! No no no!”

“Alright, then,” she sighed, and carefully lifted Sherlock into her arms, kneeling awkwardly to the side so that Sherlock could still reach John.

John hadn’t noticed his own parents arriving on the scene, but he heard his mother say, “You take John. We’ll follow in our car.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Holmes said, and began the strange walk to the edge of the playground. John tried his best to keep up, and was grateful when they were finally in the backseat of the Holmes’s car. He wasn’t sure how Sherlock’s mother had managed to place him in his car seat without removing his hand from John’s, but before he knew it they were rolling along Caledonian Road, Sherlock’s breaths still coming in short hiccups.

“Mycroft Holmes, I cannot _believe_ you let him climb up there,” Mrs. Holmes was saying.

“I didn’t think he could even reach!”

“I don’t care. You know what happened last week with the bookshelves. You are ten years old, and a very bright child, I expect you to be able to come and tell me when your three-year-old brother is about to do something that might get him killed, even if you can’t put a stop to it yourself.”

“How is it my fault he’s daft?”

Sherlock whimpered slightly and clutched John’s hand impossibly tighter.

“You’re gonna be okay, Sherlock,” John said.

Sherlock turned his head toward him and sniffed. “Really?”

“Uh-huh. Harry broke her arm last year and she got a orange cast.”

“Can I get a blue cast?”

“Yeah! And then everybody in her class put stickers on it and her friend even drew a picture on it.”

“Are you gonna draw a picture on my cast?”

John smiled. “Yeah. What do you want me to draw?”

Sherlock considered it, which to John’s relief distracted him from the pain. “A pirate?”

“That sounds great!”

“With an eye patch!”

“Yeah!”

At the sight of Sherlock’s watery smile, Mrs. Holmes nudged her husband, who raised his eyebrows and blinked.

When Sherlock finally got his blue cast, John was the first to sign it, and none of the stickers that anyone put on it were allowed to go anywhere near his stick-figure pirate drawing.


	2. Cuddling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1982
> 
> Sherlock: 4  
> John: 7

Sometimes, when their mum and dad went to visit their great uncle in the country, Harry and John stayed next door with the Holmeses. Harry would sleep on the sofa, while John slept on the floor next to Sherlock's bed, usually resulting in late nights that ended with Mrs. Holmes entering and telling the boys off for staying up past their bedtime.

One of the first times Sherlock had the pleasure of John's company, he had barely started nursery school, and was too young to even think of being embarrassed about wetting the bed. John's sleeping bag spread out on the floor below him made him smile as he snuggled under the covers and his mother kissed him goodnight.

John had finished brushing his teeth and was now settling on the floor. "Just tell us if you need anything, John," Mrs. Holmes said kindly, and she patted the top of his head before leaving the room.

"John, I like your new sleeping bag." It was true. He'd been admiring the glow-in-the-dark stars that covered it while John had been in the bathroom, cupping his hands around his eyes and pressing his face against it in order to see.

"Mummy bought it for me just for sleepovers with you."

"Thank you, John's Mummy," Sherlock lisped at the ceiling.

John giggled, and Sherlock quickly began giggling, too.

"It's really soft," John whispered contentedly. Sherlock could hear him rustling around, curled up in the fleece lining.

As Sherlock was too young to cause much trouble late at night, he and John drifted off rather quickly, feeling the toll of the busy day they'd had, out and about in the city. Sherlock's nightlight eased the anxiety of his open closet door, and made it easy for the both of them to slip into drowsiness, then sleep.

It was a few hours later that Sherlock awoke, his ears latching onto a sound so foreign and uncomfortable that he wanted to shout for his mother, until he realized what it was. He peeked over the edge of his bed at his friend.

John was sniffling and shaking, rolled up into a ball and trying not to wail.

"John?"

"What, Sherlock," he snapped.

"Are you okay?"

He sighed. "I'm--I'm fine. Bad dream."

"Do you want to sleep in Mummy and Daddy's room?"

"No."

"It'll make you feel better."

"They're not _my_ Mummy and Daddy."

"Do you miss them?"

"Uh-huh."

Sherlock hesitated for just a fraction of a second before sliding down from his bed and nudging John's shoulder with his toe.

"What?" was John's response.

"I'm gonna sleep with you."

"You don't have to."

"I want to. I want to make you feel better."

John scooted over in his sleeping bag, and Sherlock joined him.

"Whoa, it _is_ soft."

John laughed. There were still tears clinging to his eyelashes. "Told you so."

"You did."

"Sherlock...can I have a hug?"

He'd barely finished the question before Sherlock was wrapped around him, his little arms tight around John's middle. Sherlock's affection was so enthusiastic that he had to return it, so he put his own arms around Sherlock's shoulders and squeezed.

"John," Sherlock whispered after a moment.

"What?"

"You smell like flowers."

" _What?_ " John laughed.

"You smell pretty. Like flowers."

"Thanks, I guess."

"Go to sleep, Sherlock," Mycroft muttered from the doorway, startling them.

"Go away, Mycroft."

John cuddled closer to Sherlock and yawned. "He's right, Sherlock. I'm sleepy."

"Okay." Sherlock was far too comfortable to argue with this new teddy bear. He was much warmer than the other one, anyway.

The next morning, Sherlock's mother smiled fondly when she walked into his room to check on them and found them curled into each other, sharing a pillow and sleeping soundly.


	3. Watching a Movie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1983
> 
> Sherlock: 5  
> John: 8

It was Sherlock's idea, of course. Harry had been going through a "scary movie" phase lately, and Sherlock and John were unforgiving in their curiosity. John, always cautious of what might happen if his parents found out he did something bad, resisted the initial urge to swipe one of the films from Harry's bedroom and watch it himself, just to see what she was watching when she holed up by herself.

Once, he tried to "innocently" enter while she was. As soon as the door creaked open, there was a pillow thrown in his face and the door was slammed shut again, but not before he'd caught a rather disturbing glimpse of the screen. Harry's shout of "Stay out of my room, stupid!" followed him all the way downstairs, where he promptly called Sherlock's house.

His father answered. "Hullo?"

"Can I talk to Sherlock?"

"Sure. Sherlock, John's on the phone for you!"

A bit of eager thumping on the stairs in the background, and Sherlock was speaking into the receiver. "Well, did you see it?"

"A little. It was pretty scary."

"What was it?" Sherlock demanded.

"It looked like a little girl getting sucked into her closet."

Sherlock scoffed. "Is that all? I'm coming to your house tonight. We're gonna watch the whole thing."

"What?"

"You heard me. Get your nappy ready!"

"Why should I? You're the bedwetter," John shot back.

"Shut up. I'll be there at eleven o'clock."

"Are you gonna ask your mum?" There was no point--Sherlock had already hung up.

As he'd said he would, Sherlock arrived an hour before midnight through John's bedroom window.

"How'd you get up here?" John asked, equal parts appalled and impressed.

Sherlock pointed out the window at his jump rope, strung tightly between their two houses.

"Sherlock, you're mental!"

Sherlock shrugged. "Where's Harry?"

"She's sleeping over at Clara's."

Sherlock's face split into a wide grin. "Perfect."

"Sherlock, are you sure about this?"

"Yes. Let's go."

John had no choice but to follow him silently down the hall to Harry's door, into her room, over to the collection of movies in the corner, and back to his own bedroom.

Sherlock lifted the case in triumph. It had the word "POLTERGEIST" printed across the front in large white letters.

John sighed. "Okay, put in the video ."

As the movie opened with a short, creepy scene with the little girl from before, then moved on to a calm suburban neighborhood with houses spread very far apart, they looked at each other in confusion.

"Isn't this supposed to be scary?" Sherlock said.

"I thought so."

"Maybe it'll get scarier."

It didn't take long for both of them to be wrapped up in John's duvet, taking turns covering their eyes.

"Is it gone?" Sherlock's voice was muffled by the pile of pillows his face  was hiding in.

John peeked back at the screen, then immediately threw the blanket back over his head. "No!"

Some time later, they were watching a man peel away his own face, and screaming their heads off.

John's mother sprinted down the hall and threw the door open. "John?!"

Sherlock tried to hide in the duvet.

At the sight of John glancing conspicuously at the lump in his covers, Mrs. Watson sighed. "What is going on in here?" She saw the screen. "What are you watching?!"

Sherlock poked his head out near the foot of the bed. "It's called  _Poltergeist_."

Mrs. Watson pinched the bridge of her nose. "Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

"Watching a film with John."

"Do your parents know where you are?"

"Yes," Sherlock lied, unconvincingly.

"Come on, we'll have to call them."

Sherlock drudged over to her. He stared pitifully at John, who gave him a sympathetic grimace.

After making Sherlock talk to his (very angry) mother, Mrs. Watson took the phone back from him, and the two women agreed that because it was so late, Sherlock should stay for the night.

"But Sherlock Holmes, if you ever try to climb into John's room by  _jump rope_  again, you will  _both  _be in huge trouble, " Mrs. Watson said as they reentered John's bedroom.

"Me too?  _Why? _ " John cut in.

Mrs. Watson glared. "You're three years his senior, John. Learn to discourage him."

John huffed. "That's impossible."

"Well, then, let's hope he learns that good friends don't get their friends in trouble. Good night."

Sherlock and John sat sulking on opposite ends of the bed for a long time, arms crossed and not looking at each other.

"I told you to ask your mum," John muttered.

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"It's dangerous, what you did. You can't climb across on a jump rope!"

Sherlock was still silent.

"And I didn't ask you to come, anyway. I didn't want to watch that stupid film."

Sherlock was still not speaking. John was so angry that he almost didn't notice the audible sniff from behind him.

"Sherlock?" he said, turning around.

Sherlock's hunched back was still facing him, but John saw his slight shoulders shake with the weight of a sob. He frantically crawled over and put a hand on one of them.

"I didn't--I din't mean to get you in trouble," Sherlock mumbled, and John saw the tear tracks on his chubby face. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Sherlock." He paused. "She's wrong anyway, you know."

Sherlock wiped his nose on his sleeve and looked up at him. "What?"

"All best friends _do_ is get each other  in trouble."

Sherlock smiled.

"Wanna watch the rest of the film?" John said suddenly.

"Yes, of course!" Sherlock replied.

That was the first sleepover of John and Sherlock's that included no actual sleeping.


	4. On a Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1984
> 
> Sherlock: 6  
> John: 9

It was Mr. Holmes's turn to pick them up from school. He smiled as he listened to the talk happening in the backseat.

"But what if you married _me_?" Sherlock asked.

"We can't get married, we're too young!"

"We won't be young forever. What about when I'm fourteen?"

"You can't get married when you're fourteen, either," John protested.

"Why not? We'll be old then."

"Maybe I will, but you won't be."

"Boys, I think you've got a long while before either of you are old," Mr. Holmes cut in.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Besides, you have to go on a date first," John pointed out.

"Then let's go on a date!" Sherlock countered.

"You know," Mr. Holmes said, "I think dinner at Angelo's is a great idea." Unbeknownst to both Sherlock and John, their parents had been planning on dinner together, and there was no doubt that Angelo would be accommodating to the plan stirring in Siger's head.

"Yeah!" Sherlock started bouncing up and down in his seat. "John, do you want to go on a date to Angelo's?"

John shrugged. "I guess so."

Mycroft groaned and turned to his father. "Are you really going to--?"

Siger shushed him.

A few hours later, both families started out for the restaurant.

"What are the rest of you doing here?" Sherlock asked as they walked the short distance.

"Don't worry. We're just here to pay the bill," Mycroft replied sarcastically.

"Oh, good."

"What did he say?" John's father said.

Mrs. Watson shushed her husband. "Nothing, dear."

"Er, Angelo." Mr. Holmes covertly pulled the owner aside when they arrived. "Would it be possible to set up the boys a little table of their own? Just for two. Sherlock's decided he has to take John on a date before he can marry him," he said with a wink.

Angelo laughed. "Of course! One with a candle."

The five feet between the table Sherlock shared with John and the others' table may as well have been 500 miles. Mycroft watched them giggling and talking about God knew what over the top of his menu, occasionally scoffing as John would pull a funny face and use his utensils as props, making Sherlock clap and laugh obnoxiously loudly.

"Why do you encourage them?" Mycroft muttered.

Siger was pulled from his conversation with Mrs. Watson and frowned. "Why not? They're just kids."

"Exactly. They're too young to be...dating."

"They're not _dating_ , Myc. They're playing. Once upon a time you used to do the same."

"Yeah, but not like that. And I don't anymore. I'm grown-up, you can start calling me by my full name, thank you."

Siger shook his head. "They're having a good old time. Don't let it worry you."

Mycroft didn't take his eyes off of them for a second, even when his favorite dessert arrived.


	5. Kissing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1985
> 
> Sherlock: 7  
> John:10

Sherlock was no different from any other child in his curiosity. If anything, he became curious much quicker, and stayed curious much longer, and as a result asked more questions than the average seven-year-old. Which was why, one morning over breakfast, Mycroft found himself being asked, "What's it like to kiss someone?"

He nearly spit out his tea, but didn't answer.

 "Mycroft have you ever kissed someone?"

Mycroft glared at his father, who stood at the sink chuckling. "That's none of your business."

Their mother swept into the room. "Come now, boys, you'll be late to school," she said, handing them their book bags.

On the ride to school, Sherlock turned to John in the backseat. "Have _you_ ever kissed anyone?"

"Of course," John replied smugly.

"What's it like?"

John considered it. "Not that bad. Kinda wet."

"Did you like it, though?"

"Yeah, I suppose."

With that, John had planted a seed in his friend's brain.

Sherlock spent his morning class time not working on his spelling, or maths, but thinking about what John had said about kissing.

What had he liked? Why had he liked it? Would Sherlock like the same things? More importantly, was Sherlock good at it? Was John? Of course John was good at it. He was good at everything.

That was when Sherlock realized he needed _proof_ that John was good at everything.

In need of some practical data on kissing, he decided that he would kiss John during break.

He knew that his break overlapped with John's a bit, so when it rolled around, Sherlock stood on the steps in order to see over the crowd. He spotted John by the roundabout with several of his year six friends.

"John. John!" he called as he approached them. He didn't see the older boys roll their eyes or hear them groan as he tugged on John's sleeve.

John ignored them. "What is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock used his hold on John's collar to lift himself up and press their lips together.

John's eyes went wide, and he was acutely aware of the looks on his friends' faces, the initial shock, then disgust, then amusement.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" He pushed him away much harder than he'd intended, sending Sherlock flying and knocking him to the ground.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. He was finally registering the cruel laughter of the boys standing around him. "I was just wondering what it's like..."

Andrew stepped toward Sherlock and flicked his ear. "Of course."

"And who else should you kiss? Not a little girl in your own year, that's too _normal_ ," Jake supplied, tossing a pebble. Sherlock cried out when it hit his shoulder.

"Hey!" John barked, and his friends started, alarmed at his tone. "Leave," he said dangerously.

A few boys dropped their own stones as they swept away, cautiously mocking once they had gained a fair distance.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock began, standing and dusting himself off. He stopped when he saw John's glare turned on him.

"What the hell were you thinking, Sherlock?" he demanded, just as dangerous as before.

"I was--I was just--"

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?" John shoved him again, forcing him back a few steps.

"I wanted to know what it was like to kiss you."

"I'll tell you what it's like. It's disgusting! Did you think I wanted to kiss you? Cause I didn't, okay!" He knocked him down once more.

Sherlock's lip trembled. "I'm sorry." He was slipping back into the lisp he so hated.

"Boys don't kiss boys, Sherlock!" John shouted, then stormed off as the teacher called his class back in.

Sherlock sat there in the grass for the rest of his own break, sniffling and snapping at anyone who tried to approach him, whether or not their intentions were kind.

It wasn't long before John began to feel guilty. He had barely passed through the double doors into the building when he had the sudden urge to turn back and apologise. But what could he say? "I'm sorry I yelled at you for kissing me, but you had to learn somehow"?

It was Harry who caught up with him after school as he trudged towards his father's car. "What happened on the playground today?" she demanded without preamble.

"Sherlock kissed me. And I shouted at him."

"Why on earth did you do that?"

"Because he _kissed_ me! And he did it in front of everyone! None of my friends will even talk to me anymore." He kicked a rock that was near the edge of the curb.

"What 'friends'? What kind of friends stop talking to you because of _that_?"

John shrugged, eyes still downcast.

"Not real ones," Harry said in answer to her own question. "Sherlock is your real friend, John. He may be younger, and he may be...odd, but you two have been inseparable for years. And those boys...well, if those other boys have a problem with you kissing a boy, then they're not very good people."

"But Dad says--"

"Forget what Dad says. Dad's an idiot."

John sighed. "What am I gonna say to Sherlock when we get in the car?"

"Nothing. His mum picked him up after break. He got sick and had to be sent home."

John's stomach sank, and promptly started twisting its already existing knots tighter.

John set out for the neighbors' as soon as his parents had deemed enough of his dinner eaten.

"Can I talk to Sherlock?" he asked when Mycroft answered the door.

"I dunno, are you going to shout at him some more?" Mycroft replied coldly.

"Of course not! I want to apologise."

"Myc, let him in," Mrs. Holmes insisted. She appeared in the doorway herself, and although she did not look on John unkindly, there was a grimness there that he wasn't even sure was meant for him.

John hesitated at Sherlock's bedroom door, but Mrs. Holmes urged him on. "Sherlock?" he said softly as he pushed it open. He heard familiar sniffles from the corner hidden by Sherlock's bed and approached the source cautiously. "Sherlock?"

As soon as he saw his best friend, huddled between the wall and the bed, his apology was pushed out in a rush as he sprung forward and grabbed him tight. "Sherlock-I'm-so-so-so-sorry."

Sherlock immediately nuzzled into John's shoulder. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't know I was wrong."

"You"--John paused--"you weren't wrong." He glanced at Mrs. Holmes, who was staring blankly out the window.

"Then how come--you said those things?" Sherlock struggled through hiccups.

"Because I think people think it's wrong."

"But it's not?" He looked up at John hopefully, tears still clinging to his lower eyelids.

"I don't...think so. It didn't feel wrong."

"It didn't?"

"It was just a kiss."

Sherlock didn't say anything for a moment. Then he said, "I liked it."

Although neither of them noticed, Mrs. Holmes smiled.

"You know, so did I," John agreed, surprising himself.

Sherlock's face split into a grin. "Really?"

John nodded. "Much better than that girl in my class. Her lip gloss was way too sticky. And it tasted funny."

Sherlock giggled.

"Do you wanna watch telly?" John suggested.

The two of them fell asleep on the sofa. Mrs. Holmes called John's mother to tell her that it was probably best if John stayed over. Before bed, she covered them each with a blanket and kissed them goodnight.


	6. Wearing Each Other's Clothes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1986
> 
> Sherlock: 8  
> John: 11

It didn't matter how observant Sherlock was. It didn't matter how advanced he was for his age, or how early he had caught on to the whole toilet thing. He was still hopelessly cursed with the tendency to wet the bed. Though John had teased him about it, he was always good-natured, just trying to make Sherlock laugh and feel less ashamed. And so, when presented with the occasion to sleep over at John's after his birthday party, he hesitated only because there would be others there. Granted, it was only a few others. But they didn't need to know about Sherlock's...problem.

"He's your best friend," Mrs. Holmes pointed out when Sherlock announced that he wasn't going to the party at all.

"But what about the others?"

Violet stopped, then knelt down to Sherlock's level. "Are you worried about sleeping over?"

"No."

"Sherlock, you've been doing really well. And if you want to come home after the party, you can."

Sherlock hesitated, before finally assenting. It helped that his sleeping bag and a set of pyjamas had taken up permanent residence in John's closet, so he didn't have to pack for no reason.

The highlight of John's actual party was when Ronald Winston fell out of the bouncy castle and cried. Sherlock never had liked him much, and when he muttered about the idiot showing off, John wasn't the only one who laughed.

By the time parents were leaving their sons in the Watsons' care, Sherlock had forgotten all about his reservations when it came to sleeping in the same room as the other boys. Most of John's old friends had fallen out with him after the kissing fiasco the year before, and those that remained had either forgotten about it or realized they were wrong. They may have treated Sherlock like a baby at the start of the party, but now they were laughing at most things he said, and asking him questions about what their younger siblings did in his class.

"What about Beatrice?"

"Well, she always raises her hand, even when she doesn't know the answer. And she's rubbish at maths."

"Gary?"

"Hates art. Constantly glues his fingers together."

"Jason Claiborne?"

Sherlock considered. "He's okay."

John's friends laughed.

It wasn't long before they were sat in John's bedroom, watching a film about a spy. Sherlock didn't actually bother to watch it, although he knew it was one of John's favorites, partly by the way his face lit up at certain parts, but mostly by the dialogue that he recognized from John's own speech patterns when they played pretend. Sherlock sat next to John, repeatedly nodding off, his head drooping and drifting from side to side until he would be awakened by a loud sound from the telly, and the whole thing would start over again. By the time the film was over, Sherlock was asleep with his head on John's shoulder and his hand in the popcorn bowl.

The other boys looked at each other, unsure of what to do. John, on the other hand, didn't miss a beat as he nudged his friend and guided him to his sleeping bag.

Sherlock greeted the warmth of the bag most appropriately--that is, by falling back asleep.

A few hours later, he blinked groggily at the ceiling. The room was dark, and the presence of five other boys sleeping soundly all around him registered almost at the same time as that of the growing wet spot at the front of his pants.

He shot up, eyes darting around the room. "John," he hissed. "John!"

The body on the bed above him rolled and looked over the edge. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"I...I, um..." He felt his cheeks burning.

John knew that look. "Oh. _Oh_. Okay, let's find you something to change into first, yeah? Unless you want to call your mum."

"No. No! Let's just...er..." Sherlock was starting to breathe too quickly.

"Wait. Sherlock!" John leapt down from his bed, his feet light, and knelt down next to Sherlock's sleeping bag, stroking his upper arms the way he had before, like whenever Sherlock thought he was going to get in trouble, or that time that Harry had startled him in that scary mask. "Calm down. It's okay. Just calm down." When Sherlock's breathing was closer to normal, he continued, "We'll fix it. Nobody has to know."

Sherlock cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "Nobody?"

"Well, maybe my mum. But that's it."

The next morning, when everyone trudged sleepily down the stairs for Mrs. Watson's flapjacks, no one noticed that Sherlock's pyjama trousers were too big and too long for him. Although the string was tied tight around his waist, his feet slipped all over the linoleum in the kitchen. Still, no one paid the slightest interest to why.

When Sherlock arrived home in a pair of John's pyjamas, his mother didn't mention it, because John's mother had already called her about cleaning the sleeping bag, and it didn't seem that Sherlock cared, anyway.


	7. Cosplaying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1987
> 
> Sherlock: 9  
> John: 12
> 
> (Does this count? I think this counts.)

All Mycroft could say was that they were lucky Halloween was on a Saturday, or Sherlock never would have made it out of the house.

Sherlock had gone all out with that year's costume. In fact, he had gone a bit overboard. At two in the afternoon, Mycroft had started his makeup. Three hours later, he'd been forced to redo it twice because, in Sherlock's words, it "didn't look Bowie enough." He was busy with the third application of eyeliner and cursing himself for ever taking Sherlock to see that film when there was a knock at the door.

They heard Mrs. Holmes greet John. "You look lovely!"

"Thanks. Is Sherlock ready?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

A few seconds later, John walked into the room and stopped in his tracks. "Whoa."

Sherlock grinned, but dropped it immediately. "Too much?"

"No, it's brilliant!"

The grin returned.

"Sherlock, stop it. Lip gloss," Mycroft muttered impatiently, holding it out and trying to apply it to Sherlock's toothy smile.

Sherlock tugged at his sleeve. "And who are you supposed to be?" he asked John.

"Really, Sherlock? We've seen _Goldfinger_ together at least fifty times."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Alright, Sherlock, you're ready. _Don't_ rub your eyes."

Sherlock picked up his empty bag and headed toward the door. Soon they were on their way, James Bond and Jareth the Goblin King walking side-by-side down the street.

They ran into a girl from Sherlock's class, and two boys from John's, who were completely awed by Sherlock's costume. "Where did you _get_ that?"

"Bits and pieces from all over."

As they walked away from yet another stranger complimenting Sherlock's look, John laughed and said, "People hardly even notice me. It's like I'm actually undercover."

Sherlock smirked. He held up his prop crystal ball dramatically. "Tell me, John," he said in his best Goblin King impression, "what do you think of my Labyrinth?"

"You know, David Bowie would make a good Bond villain."

"Of course he would, he's David Bowie." Sherlock fiddled with his wig. "You should've been a goblin."

"I should _not_ have. Why would I want to be a goblin?"

"I'm the star anyway. We could've at least matched."

John nudged him. "At least we're both handsome devils. That's good for something."

"I suppose. But next year we should match."

"Yeah, alright. If I trick or treat next year."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm getting too old, Sherlock. Harry stopped a couple years ago."

"But if you don't go, who am I gonna go with?" Sherlock was stopped on the pavement, and John had to turn around to face him.

"Don't you have friends in your class?"

"No."

"None?"

"They're not all mean. But none of them want to be my friend, either."

John sighed. "How about this: if you don't have another friend by then, I'll go with you. Who knows, I might go anyway. But you have to work at making friends, Sherlock."

"But everyone's so _boring_."

"Have we got a deal?" John held his hand out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sure, _Mr. Bond_."

"Good. Just don't kidnap any baby brothers to make it happen."

Sherlock raised an amused eyebrow. "What about pets?"

"Still not good, Sherlock."

"I'll remember that."

But how could he resist, the next week, when he met a cat named Toby?


	8. Shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1988
> 
> Sherlock: 10  
> John: 13

With St. Valentine's Day on the horizon, John was desperate to get something good. He and Sherlock had been to nearly every store at Brent Cross, and he still wasn't sure what to get.

Sherlock sighed in frustration for about the seventieth time. "Could we please get this over with?"

"I have to find something nice for Sarah."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does, Sherlock. You just don't get it 'cause you don't have a girlfriend."

Sherlock didn't have a response. He didn't even really know why that statement struck him the way it did, but he found himself suddenly staring at the floor, brow furrowed.

"Hey, Sherlock, I didn't..." John reached out a hand to pat Sherlock's shoulder, but stopped halfway there.

"I know. You didn't mean anything by it."

John bit his lip. "Say, why don't you find something for Molly? She seems to really like you."

"But I don't like Molly like that."

"Why not?"

"I don't know, I just _don't_. Look, can we get out of here?"

John sighed. "I don't think there's anything here, anyway. Come on," he muttered.

They found Sherlock's mother just where they'd left her, listening to a violin concerto in the parking lot. When she spotted them walking towards the car, she reached around to unlock the back door. "No luck?"

John shook his head.

"What does she like?"

He shrugged.

"How about chocolates? Everyone likes chocolates."

Sherlock scoffed. "Everyone gets chocolates, Mum."

"Because everyone likes them!"

"Chocolates are a great idea," John interjected, just wanting to be rid of the responsibility of gift-buying.

"To the market, then. For a nice box of chocolates."

Sherlock almost groaned at the unoriginality of it.

In an aisle covered in red and pink, heart-shaped candies and romantic cards assaulted Sherlock's vision.

"What _kind_ of chocolates should I get her, though?" John muttered, flabbergasted. This was clearly not a problem he had foreseen.

"You could get her the assorted ones," Sherlock supplied.

"Are you kidding? You have to search for the good ones."

"Fine, erm..." Sherlock thought about everything he had ever deduced about Sarah. Her musical preferences, her family life, even her grandfather's fondness for pipe tobacco. He couldn't recall ever having noticed any particular sweets she favored, except that he remembered her going on about coconut one night when John was supposed to be spending time with him and she'd showed up to his house unannounced. In that instant, he spotted a box of coconut-flavored chocolates and picked it up. "Doesn't she like coconut?"

"I...think so..."

"I think she does."

"Well, if _you_ say she does, then I'm not gonna doubt it." John took the box from Sherlock's hand and headed to the checkout. Sherlock followed him, a package of John's favorite jelly babies in tow.

On the way home, Sherlock pulled out the packet and handed it to John, who tore it open in delight and offered one to Sherlock.

John's Valentine's Day was, in the end, a disaster. Sherlock's idea of the coconut-filled chocolates had been a bad one, it turned out. Of course, it wasn't entirely his fault. Wasn't John supposed to keep track of these things? How was Sherlock supposed to know that Sarah was actually _allergic_ to coconut?


	9. Hanging Out With Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1989
> 
> Sherlock: 11  
> John:14

It was nice of Greg to invite them to his pool party, Sherlock knew, but he still wasn't overly fond of the stares he got from the older kids there. He'd only because John and Greg were rugby friends, and Sherlock and John were _best_ friends, and it was generally accepted by that point that they came as a packaged deal. He was lucky Molly's sister was friends with Greg, too, because that meant someone to talk to when John was otherwise occupied.

Such was the case at this moment. Sherlock and Molly were sitting at the edge of the swimming pool with their feet dangling in, looking across at a group of cackling teenagers.

"You know that boy that died here a few months ago?"

"Sherlock why'd you have to bring that up?"

"I was thinking about it. There's something wrong."

"I don't want to talk about it."

They fell back into silence.

"What d'you think they're talking about?" Molly asked eventually.

Sherlock shrugged. "Something utterly boring, I'm sure."

"I dunno, John looks like he's having fun."

"He's easily amused," Sherlock scoffed, sore that he wasn't the center of John's attention. When he did spot Sherlock looking over, however, he smiled and waved.

Molly's brow furrowed. "Sherlock..."

"No, Molly, I've told you before. I won't be your boyfriend."

"No, it's not that, I just..."

"What?"

"Is there something you aren't telling me?"

Sherlock's head whipped around. "No. Of course not."

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock was puzzled. What on earth could make Molly think he was keeping something from her? "Why would there be? What would I not tell you? I tell you everything."

"Yeah," she said skeptically.

"I do!"

"Then why do you always look at John that way?"

"What way?"

"Like you like him."

Sherlock nearly fell into the pool. "I don't though."

"Right."

"I don't! I don't like anybody."

Molly smirked. "I don't think that's true."

"But it is!" Sherlock whined.

"Sherlock, you've always liked John."

Sherlock stared at his feet, distorted small waves. "Do I?"

"You look sad when he isn't looking at you. You like it when he pays attention to you."

"Of course I do, he's my best friend."

"And you sabotage all of his girlfriends."

Sherlock stared at her, offended. "I do not."

Molly raised an eyebrow and shrugged. "Maybe not on purpose."

Shoulders slumped, he stared at the surface of the water in confusion. He thought about the last few girls who had tried to be John's girlfriend. Each one had been gone by the end of the second week. He'd thought it was the fault of John being fourteen--not many young teenagers were successful in relationships, as far as Sherlock had seen. But now that he thought about it, he recalled their reasons for ending it. There had been Nora, whose favorite shirt was ruined by one of Sherlock's impromptu experiments in the garden--one that John had actively participated in. Then it was the girl with the big nose whose parents were getting a divorce and left crying when Sherlock mentioned it. A month ago it was Jeanette, the one from John's English class who had flat out told John it was over because he skived off with Sherlock when they were supposed to be seeing a movie. There hadn't been anyone since, and Sherlock was happier than he had been in a while. That was, until they arrived at the party and he saw Isabelle Smith hanging all over John.

"Oh."

Sherlock didn't have to utter anything else. Molly simply replied, "Yeah."

"Do you think he knows?" Sherlock worried with the string on his trunks.

"No. You didn't even know."

"Yes, but how did _you?_ How did you know how I felt before _I_ did?"

"Been there, done that." Molly's voice was soft, but there was a certain laughter in her tone. "Besides, boys are stupid. You wouldn't know a crush if it bit you on the nose."

He wanted to argue, but she'd clearly just proven the case. "But what do I do about it?"

She sighed. "Can't help you there. The only thing I could possibly say is to tell him. But that didn't work out so well for me, so..."

Suddenly, Sherlock's stomach twisted guiltily. "Molly...I am sorry."

"Oh, it's alright. You've always liked John, I see that now. I can't say I blame you." She cocked her head appreciatively, still gazing across at the older kids. "He _is_ cute."

"That doesn't mean you can go after him," Sherlock shot at her, then realized what he'd done and went red.

She laughed. "You're jealous and everything! You really do have a crush on him."

"Shut up."

"Hey you guys," Greg said as he approached them. "How're you doing over here?"

"Fine," Sherlock muttered, kicking Molly before she could say anything about their revelation.

"D'you want to eat? My mum just showed up with the pizza."

Sherlock nodded. Molly rubbed her shin where his heel had connected with it.

Twenty minutes later, with paper plates littering the two tables set up at one end of the pool, Isabelle picked up a nearby empty Coca-Cola bottle.

"Who wants to play?"

All of the teenagers laughed and shouted enthusiastically.

"Are you gonna play, Sherlock?" John asked him, startling him with a playful nudge and a wink.

"Play what?"

"Spin the bottle!"

"Aren't I a little young for that?"

"It's not like we're gonna go too far. Greg's parents are just in the lobby. Come on, it'll be fun."

Molly sat down in the circle and raised her eyebrows. Sherlock sighed and sat next to her. John grinned as he sat, too.

Greg was the only one left standing. "Okay, rules: you have to kiss whoever it lands on. No exceptions. Also, nothing dirty. There are children present," he joked, glancing at Sherlock and Molly. Sherlock scowled. Greg walked over to the portable record player in the corner and put on a Tears for Fears album.

"I'll go first!" Isabelle sang.

Her spin landed on the boy next to John, and Sherlock had to suppress a laugh at the disappointed look she gave before reluctantly kissing him.

As the privilege of spinning the bottle passed around the circle, the innocent game surprisingly remained innocent. Molly's sister landed on Molly, and she hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. Greg's spin landed on the same boy as Isabelle, and they put on a show of it. Molly blushed deeply when she landed on Greg, who quite graciously pecked her on the lips and smiled. And then it was Sherlock's turn.

He held his breath and resisted shutting his eyes tightly as it spun. When it finally landed on Molly, he sighed in relief and kissed her hard. A few of the others catcalled, and Greg laughed, "I didn't think _you_ would be the problem."

Molly's eyes were wide when he broke away from her. After a moment, she shook her head.

Meanwhile, John was spinning the bottle. Sherlock didn't think about the possibility of it landing on him when someone else spun until it did.

John looked slowly from the bottle to Sherlock, eyes slightly wider than usual, his face the picture of panic.

"Go ahead, John, get it over with!" the boy next to him urged.

John shifted so that he faced Sherlock. "Well, okay..."

Sherlock could see how uncertain John was as he inched closer, and so at the last moment, he dipped down so that John's lips touched his forehead instead.

He heard Molly sigh in frustration behind him, but as soon as he lifted his head to look at John, he knew he'd done the right thing. John's eyes shone with grateful tears, and he patted Sherlock's knee. "Alright, your turn, Jack," John said suddenly to the boy on his right, breaking his eye contact with Sherlock.

Molly looked at him like his dog had just died.

Sherlock glared.


	10. With Animal Ears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1990
> 
> Sherlock: 12  
> John: 15

"I don't remember agreeing to this," Sherlock muttered.

"Nor do I," John replied, equally as bitter.

The two had been cast in a church pageant as hares, much to Mycroft's amusement. Sherlock wasn't even sure how they had both ended up as hares, since they were supposed to be portraying the story of Noah and his ark. He had already pointed out to the director that having two male hares on board defeated the purpose of bringing two at all, but his concerns had been brushed aside.

John touched the ears atop his head gingerly, as though they were something he was going to burn when the pageant was over. Sherlock thought he just might join him. "How long until we're on?"

Sherlock glanced at the clock above the lighted mirror. "We've got about twenty minutes. I don't know why everyone else is so eager to get out there, it's just one badly-written song and a bow." They had been alone in the dressing room for a few minutes already, their castmates having leapt at the chance to leave.

John shrugged. "I suppose they actually care about it."

"I can't believe Molly roped us into this. How did that happen exactly?"

"You told her we were free this weekend."

"Oh, right. Well, that's the last time I'm being honest about not having plans."

"At least you learned young. I didn't get that lesson until about two months ago."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "What do you mean?"

"Harry's having trouble with Emily. A while back she asked me to help her put together a nice dinner for the two of them. Wasted weekend, I'd say. They're worse than ever."

"Is she still..."

"Yes," John replied tersely. His false ears drooped forward as he bowed his head. "That's worse, too."

Sherlock hesitated. "You know, she'll move out soon. She's going to be eighteen in a few weeks. Maybe she won't get drunk as much when she doesn't have to go home to your father." Sherlock didn't want to mention why Harry and her father didn't get along--it hit too close to home, and he didn't like to think about it.

"Yeah. Maybe."

Sherlock stared. John's tone was off; he was thinking hard on something.

"Sherlock?" he said tightly after a few moments.

"Yeah?"

"Remember that time you kissed me on the playground?"

Sherlock didn't think he could speak.

At his silence, John quickly tried to backtrack. "I mean, you probably don't. It was a long time ago, and you were really young, so you might have--"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Yes, I remember."

John looked like he was struggling for the right words. "Why did you do it?" he finally asked.

Sherlock sighed. "I seem to recall telling you. I just wanted to know what it was like to kiss someone."

"No, you said you wanted to know what it was like to kiss _me_ ," John pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged, uncomfortable.

"Why me?"

"I don't know, I was a stupid little kid!" Sherlock snapped.

"You've never been stupid, Sherlock."

"Well, I was then. And you want to know why?" Sherlock stood and began pacing the room. "Because when you're a kid and you're curious, you do stupid things. You think, 'oh, it won't hurt to try this out, it's just an experiment,' but then you end up hurting someone you care about because what you did was completely _stupid_ , and you realize you're the biggest idiot to ever walk the earth."

" _Hurt_ someone? Sherlock, you didn't do anything but kiss me. You were totally innocent. I'm the one who pushed you down and shouted at you. _I_ was the idiot. Not you."

"It wasn't your fault," Sherlock mumbled.

"No, it wasn't. It was Dad's. And now that I'm not a 'stupid little kid' anymore, I get that what he says isn't right. Harry's my sister, and even though she annoys me a lot, she's still the same Harry after coming out."

Sherlock bit his lip and stared at the floor for a long time before looking up at John through his lashes. "Would you ever kiss me again?"

John looked startled. "Well...yes, I suppose. If you wanted me to."

"What about right now?"

John's eyes narrowed for a moment before he tipped Sherlock's head back with a finger on his chin. He kept it there as he examined Sherlock's face for any trace of facetiousness, but found none. Slowly, he leaned toward him until their closed lips were pressed together.

Sherlock shut his eyes and soaked in every detail--the stillness of both their mouths, the kind firmness of John's, the smell of John's lip balm. He was vaguely aware of his rabbit ears slipping as John's fingers moved from his chin to his temples, gently pushing his head away.

"Thank you," Sherlock muttered when John backed away, eyes still closed, a soft smile left behind.

John smiled. "We've got to get out there," he murmured, clearly not wanting to break Sherlock away from his happy reflection on recent events.

"How long have we got?"

"Two minutes."

When Sherlock opened his eyes, John helped him straighten his ears.

Molly was quick to forgive him for almost missing his entrance when he told her why.


	11. Wearing Kigurumis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1991
> 
> Sherlock: 13  
> John: 16

"What is that?" Sherlock demanded. He and John had just walked into the house; their backpacks still hung on their shoulders.

"A gift. From your Aunt Tilly."

Sherlock's eyes went wide. "No. Absolutely not," he said, trying to make a break for his room.

"Sherlock Holmes, you come here this instant!" his mother commanded. He stopped with his foot on the third stair.

"What is it?" John asked.

Mrs. Holmes held up a bodysuit the size of a grown man. Yellow and black stripes across the middle told John that it was supposed to look like a bumblebee. "'Violet,'" she read from the note lying next to the package, "'Since Sherlock has come to love studying bees so much, I thought I would make something that better suited his tastes than those old cat pyjamas. Perhaps this will keep him warm! Give the lads my love. Tilly.' Isn't it wonderful?"

John tried to suppress his laughter. "Yeah, it really is. But I think it would be better if Sherlock tried it on."

"No."

"Oh, come now, Sherlock. She made it herself."

"Yes, and that's why it's hideous. No thank you."

"Sherlock," John whined.

Sherlock glared at him for a long while before muttering, "All right."

John clapped enthusiastically. Mrs. Holmes grinned from ear to ear.

"But no photographs!" Sherlock barked, snatching the outfit away from his mother and pointing a threatening finger at John as he went upstairs.

When he came back down, bodysuit zipped all the way up to his chin, he shot a disgusted look in the direction of John's ecstatic one.

"Oh, it's precious," Mrs. Holmes said.

"Yes, it's adorable," John agreed, practically crying trying not to laugh.

"Put the hood up, Sherlock."

"Yeah, put up the hood!"

Sherlock glared, but did as he was told in the hope that it might get him out of the thing faster.

"Fantastic!" John exclaimed as the antennae bobbed furiously.

"Great. Can I take it off now, please?"

Mrs. Holmes was rooting through the package on the table. "Oh, look at this. There's one for you too, John."

John stared in horror as she pulled from withing layers of packaging materials another suit, green, with ruffles around the neck.

There was another note pinned to it, which Sherlock's mother read aloud as well. "'I was absolutely delighted to meet our Sherlock's good friend John at Christmas. I do hope I got his measurements right.'"

Sherlock was unapologetically laughing out loud. "Go ahead, John, put it on."

The picture of decorum, John went up to Sherlock's room to change into his own suit.

With the two of them together, it was more obvious what Aunt Tilly had been going for.

"Oh, John, you're a flower!"

"Yes, it would seem so."

Sherlock snickered.

"Shut up, Honeybee," John hissed.

"I don't look half as ridiculous as you do, _Buttercup_."

"I'm getting the camera."

"Mum, no!" Sherlock shouted after her, but she was already gone.

"You know, this _is_ oddly comfortable," John said.

"Not to those of us who have to look at you. That green is the most disgusting thing I have ever seen. And I dissect things for fun."

Sherlock turned away to see if his mother was coming back, and John burst into fresh laughter. "What?"

"The...the stinger..." John was wiping tears from his eyes.

"Piss off, Buttercup."

"I am a _daisy_ , I'll have you know."

Both of them laughed at that, but immediately went back to sulking at the sight of Mr. Holmes's professional-grade camera. "You're not really going to take _pictures_ ," Sherlock said incredulously.

"Of course I am. I think Aunt Tilly would rather like to see you boys in them."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And _then_ we can take them off?"

"Then you can take them off."

It was when she began snapping photos and cackling that Sherlock realized she knew just how ridiculous the outfits were, and stormed up the stairs without another word, dragging John along behind him.


	12. Making Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1992
> 
> Sherlock: 14  
> John: 17

Sherlock didn't understand why John wanted _him_ , of all people.

They had been together officially for a few weeks. And Sherlock just couldn't fathom it.

Don't misunderstand, he was over the moon about it. When John had taken his hand in the corridor and asked, "Is this alright?" his heart had leapt like he didn't know it could. But there was a nagging sensation at the back of his mind. Why had John taken his hand in the first place? Why him?

"John," Sherlock whispered, pushing him away and breathing heavily.

"You alright?" John asked, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear.

Sherlock nodded, but said, "What made you choose me?"

John blew out a puff of air and raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"Everyone loves you. You could have anyone in the whole school, boy or girl. Why did you pick me?"

John shook his head, smiling. "Of course you would overthink something like that." He kissed Sherlock, then drew away just enough to rest their foreheads together. "You're wrong about everyone loving me."

"No, they do. There's a girl in my chemistry class who refused to talk to me when she found out we were together."

"They love the _idea_ of me. Trust me, this is something I know from experience, remember? I spent years trying to keep a girlfriend, and you know how that turned out." He moved back in to keep snogging, but Sherlock wasn't having it.

"You still haven't answered my question."

"What question?"

"Why did you choose _me_?"

John sighed, but smiled fondly. "Because you're the only one who  _actually_ likes me. And I love you, as more than just my best friend. I tried to deny it for a long time. My entire life, I suppose. And then I realized I'd been denying it for too long." He paused, realizing he was going into a sappy speech. So, to lighten the mood, he smiled and muttered, "I love you, Honeybee."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but indulged John's kiss. His fingers found the back of John's head and ran through his hair. "You're going to need a haircut soon," he murmured against John's lips.

"You're one to talk," John replied, gently tugging on the curls at Sherlock's nape.

"I _like_ my hair long. And so do you."

"Hmm," John agreed, working his way across Sherlock's jaw to nip at his ear.

"What would you do if I chopped it all off?" Sherlock joked.

"I'd still like it. You could dye it green and it would make no difference to me." John paused and lifted his face from Sherlock's neck. "Please don't dye your hair green."

"I dunno, I was thinking a nice chartreuse for the winter ball."

"If you want," John went along with a sigh. "Just as long as you clue me in so my tie can match."

"Whatever you say, John," Sherlock replied, diving in to mouth at John's throat. Then he stopped. "You know that I'm not going to actually do it, right?"

"Of course."

John twisted his fingers into Sherlock's hair when he returned to his neck. "What time do your parents get home?"

"Not until six. Of course, the real worry is--"

There was a thump from the doorway, and they flew like shrapnel to opposite ends of the sofa.

"Mycroft!" John said in greeting, panic making him overly friendly. He hopped up, but then hovered with nowhere to actually go.

Mycroft just stared, the valise he'd dropped still on its side at his feet.

"Welcome back, Mycroft," Sherlock said jovially. "John's my boyfriend, now. Do pick your jaw up off the floor, it hasn't been cleaned this week." He swept by, leaving John and Mycroft staring at each other, red-faced.

"I..." John began.

Mycroft held up a hand, then looked away and pointed in the direction of the stairs.

"Right."

John followed Sherlock up the stairs. After that, he was a bit more careful to ask Sherlock when his family were coming home.


	13. Eating Ice Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1993
> 
> Sherlock: 15  
> John: 18

Walking into the shop, there were stares. They were used to it by now--over the summer, John had matured quite nicely, and Sherlock, with his school uniform and the braces that made his lisp inescapable, looked juvenile next to him. So it was nothing new for them to go somewhere hand-in-hand and get a few disapproving stares. But most people who knew them just laughed at how deceptively large the age gap looked.

"Do you want vanilla?"

Sherlock nodded and headed to the table in the corner, next to the window. Soon, John joined him, two cones in hand.

"So, what have you got so far?" John asked as he licked away a stray bit of chocolate and gave Sherlock his ice cream.

"That woman over there." Sherlock nodded at the woman two tables over. "She's going through a divorce."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. But she's happy about it. Incredibly happy. That was not a fun marriage."

"What about them?"

"First date. They're playing footsie under the table, but it's a bit awkward. Been friends for a few years, pining for each other almost as long."

"Sounds familiar."

"I suppose. Though, we didn't wait as long as they did for a date."

"What? Sherlock, we've been together a year and known each other our entire lives. If anything, it took us _longer_."

"Not true. Don't you remember our first date?"

"Of course. Picnic in Regent's Park." When Sherlock shook his head, John raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"Angelo's."

"You mean when we were kids?"

"Yes."

John laughed. "Sherlock, that wasn't really a date."

"We called it one," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yeah, but..."

"Then what constitutes a _real_ date?"

"Well, a date is when...when two people who like each other go out and have fun."

Sherlock smirked. "That's exactly what happened."

John shook his head and smiled. "Our parents were there, Sherlock."

"Well of course they were, they couldn't let two children that young out on their own. But they were kind enough to sit far away."

John snorted. "You and I remember that night very differently."

"What do you mean?"

"They were only a few feet away. Mycroft kept staring at us."

"Mycroft _still_ stares. I wouldn't put it past him to hack CCTV to spy on our dates."

"And what would he see?"

Immediately, Sherlock drew his tongue up the side of his ice cream cone obscenely, catching a drip of vanilla ice cream.

John simultaneously giggled and struggled to subtly adjust himself. "Stop that."

"Problem?"

"You bastard."

"Oi, watch your language, Watson, there are children present." John whipped around. Sebastian Wilkes stood a few feet away, smirking at Sherlock.

"You're in _my year_ , Wilkes." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh, is that so? Then what're you doing out with a man who looks like he could be your father?"

John couldn't keep the incredulous grin off his face. "Wilkes, I'm _three years_ older than you."

"Could've fooled me."

"Please, an anagram of the word 'wow' could fool you," Sherlock muttered.

"I'm just saying, if Watson looks like _that_ , he should be able to get anyone at uni. If he can't, there must be something wrong with him."

"Like maybe the fact that I already have a boyfriend?" Sherlock had to resist the pull upward on the corners of his lips. Like always, he was thoroughly enjoying John's sarcasm. "I don't want anyone at uni, Wilkes."

"Why don't you go back to your mother?" Sherlock said.

"My mother?"

"Yeah, since she clearly didn't give you enough love in your childhood, now that you have to go after a woman twice your age to fulfill the need for motherly affection."

Wilkes looked taken aback. And angry.

Greg approached from the direction of the counter. "Problem?" he said in his best Met trainee manner.

Wilkes didn't seem to know who he actually was, and clearly took him for an actual authority figure. "None, sir."

"Good. Then kindly fuck off."

"Thanks, Greg."

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock was nothing if not blunt.

"Fancied an ice cream."

"Mycroft sent you here. See, John, I told you he's always watching."

"Mycroft didn't send me! I didn't even know you two were here."

"Yes, and on a date, no less, so please take some of your own advice and kindly _fuck off_."

John could tell Wilkes had put Sherlock into a bit of a foul mood. "Just sit as far away as you can or he'll toss you out on the pavement himself," he warned.

Greg chuckled and did as he was told. But he was still in Sherlock's line of sight.

Much to John's frustration, Sherlock played the trick with the dripping ice cream as much as he could until the last bit could be sucked out of the cone like a vacuum.

"You bloody git," John muttered fondly, periodically glancing over at Greg's discomfort at having to witness such an obvious display.

Sherlock shrugged. "Just giving Mycroft a show."

"At least he's not hacking into the CCTV."

"Yet."


	14. Genderswapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is cheating. I am fully aware.
> 
> 1994
> 
> Sherlock: 16  
> John: 19

In retrospect, it might have been Sherlock's fault. It had been quite a while since he'd gone to the barber's, so that he had to pull his hair back in the lab, and he hardly ever spoke in class.

It was an honest misunderstanding, he knew, but that didn't change the awkwardness of having to explain to the poor new girl from chemistry that a) he was male, and b) he had a boyfriend. When she'd walked up to him at his table that day--Valentine's, no less--he'd been baffled. It was when she began asking if he'd like to see a movie that night that he looked up and peered at her through his safety goggles.

"No, I'm sorry, I..."

Her eyes went dangerously wide as soon as he'd spoken. "Oh. Oh my God, I am...I am so sorry."

"No, it's...it's fine, it's just that I've a boyfriend, and I don't much think he'd appreciate it. Also, I don't think you'd much appreciate it if I led you on, considering I'm gay in the first place."

"I just...I mean...I'm so sorry. I thought you were a girl." She put her face in her hands.

John thought Sherlock's tale was hilarious.

"She thought you were a girl? And she _asked you out?_ " He was laughing so hard, he almost fell out of his chair.

Sherlock shushed him. "You're causing a scene." He looked around at the restaurant's other patrons. "Besides, it wasn't that funny."

"I beg to differ."

"Can't I just enjoy my meal without being made fun of?"

"I'm not making fun of you, Honeybee. It's just good situational comedy." He wiped tears from his eyes. "I can't believe it. Our lives are a sitcom."

Sherlock reluctantly smiled. "She was so startled by my voice."

John burst into fresh giggles. Sherlock chuckled.

"Is there anyone else I need to worry about?" John said, smirking.

"I am quite the catch. I think Winnie Rollins has been eyeing me from across Mr. McKenzie's classroom."

"Do I need to warn her about your tendency to forget your lunch? She'll have to help you remember if she wants to be with you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Could we change the subject?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Sure. What did you have in mind?"

Sherlock shrugged. "What was your day like?"

"Well, I wasn't mistaken for a woman."

"Oh, please, can we drop it?"

"I'm sorry, it's just too funny."

"I beg to differ."

"Okay, we can drop it. I'm sorry."

Sherlock was silent.

"Oh, come on, Honeybee. I love you."

"It's not like it matters, being mistaken for a female."

"Of course not. It's just--a girl chatting you up because she thinks you're another girl? It's funny. The situation itself is funny."

"No, it was awkward."

"You only think that because it happened today. Give it a few weeks, you'll get over it."

"But what about the girl?"

"She will, too. You're so sweet to think of her, but it'll blow over as long as you don't make a big deal of it."

Sherlock sighed. "I guess you're right."

"Thank you. Now, let's eat so that we can get back to your house and fall asleep on the sofa."

"Snogging first, of course."

John smiled. "Of course. What kind of Valentine's Day would it be without snogging?"


	15. In a Different Clothing Style

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1995
> 
> Sherlock: 17  
> John: 20

"Sherlock, why aren't you in school?"

"There's been a murder, John."

"And that concerns you _how?_ "

Sherlock huffed and tugged on John's sleeve. "You can eat later, we've got a case."

"Oh, not this again. Sherlock, you are not a bloody detective. You're a _student_. We're both students. You can be a detective in a few years, and I'll help you all you like. But I've got class this afternoon."

Sherlock squeezed himself between John and the table, somehow managing to balance on his lap without overturning John's tray. He threw his arms around his neck and donned his best doe-eyed pout. "Please."

John glared at him for a long while. He pursed his lips and he sniffed insolently. However, he eventually muttered, "Fine."

Sherlock jumped up. "Oh, fantastic! Thank you, John. Our disguises are in the car."

"Dis-disguises?"

"You'll be alright with the grey tights, I'm sure."

"Excuse me, grey _tights_ , did you say?"

"Of course, John. We're going to a renaissance faire," Sherlock replied, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"A renaissance faire."

Sherlock nodded. "One of the knights was killed in a staged joust. Of course, everyone thinks it was an accident, but it's not."

"Right. And how do _you_ know this?" John asked as they reached Sherlock's mother's car. He wondered whether he'd even told her he was taking it. They climbed in and began to covertly change.

"It's obvious. Those lances are designed to look deadly, but couldn't really hurt you if you were accidentally stabbed. The actors are highly trained to hit in non-life threatening areas of their opponents' bodies--shoulders, arms, and the like. Our knight was slain when the lance pressed against the breastplate of his armour, he fell off his horse, and he was trampled to death."

"Jesus, Sherlock, that still sounds like an accident."

Sherlock shook his head. "They say he fell as if faint, and a few people saw him frothing at the mouth as his horse trampled him."

"But how do you know all this?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Greg."

John shook his head. "I'm going to kill him."

"I wasn't at school anyway!"

"So you were skiving off."

"I--yes, I was. But this is so much more interesting than class, anyway, John! Listening to those miserable idiots trying to drill the periodic table into my head even though I've known it for five years--it's tiresome. Let's put my skills to better use, shall we?"

"Alright. But you're going tomorrow. No excuses. You promised your mum you'd go to uni, how are you going to ever get there if you're not going to class?"

Sherlock slapped a hat onto his head and nodded, offering a fake salute. "Yes, sir," he said, and grinned.

"A...a pirate? Why do _you_ get to be a pirate?"

"Because the pirate costume in the theatre stores fit me. You get to be a knight, at least."

John rolled his eyes. "Lucky me. I'll drive." He climbed into the front seat.

"But it's _my_ mum's car."

"But _you_ haven't got a license. I'm driving, that's the end of it."

They arrived at the faire a short while later. Surrounded by jugglers and archers in polyester outfits, they made their way to the jousting arena at the centre, where a dozen horses stood in stalls next to a massive set of bleachers.

"So what's the plan?" John asked.

"Alright," Sherlock said, turning to him. "We head over to that tent over there. That's where the knights are."

"Right, right, and then?"

"You joust."

" _What?_ "

"You're going to joust."

"I heard you, I just...bloody hell, Sherlock, are you insane? I can't joust!"

"It's not actually jousting. You just ride a horse and hold a lance."

"Sherlock someone has died already."

"Relax, you'll be fine." This whole time, Sherlock had been steering John toward the tent he'd indicated. "You can gather any information from the other nights--any indication of a motive, an opportunity. In the meantime, I will be able to investigate the dressing room."

John shook his head. "Alright. Let's get this over with."

John fit seamlessly into the ranks of the jousters. Sherlock had somehow acquired the proper armour, and as long as he stayed quiet, he was confident the others wouldn't be tipped off. He just hoped Sherlock would be finished looking over the place before he actually had to charge a horse at someone. He had bumped into one of the knights, but it was no issue: he'd patted John on the shoulder and gone on his way.

When the jousting show began, Sherlock sneaked into the tent the knights had occupied. "Evidence, evidence," he muttered.

He came across the victim's discarded armour, and upon studying it, found a tiny spike on the breastplate, just where the man's neck would have gone.

"Of course," Sherlock whispered to himself. "He was poisoned."

There was a bottle in one of the cabinets that confirmed his suspicions, and he ran from the tent, bottle and breastplate in hand.

"Stop! Stop the joust!" he shouted.

John breathed a sigh of relief. He'd just directed his horse to the post, and was even holding a long, thin lance that he hadn't any clue what to do with.

"Dost this peasant speak mad?" someone boomed, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John, don't move."

John froze. "Why?"

Sherlock leapt over the small fence and reached up to John's neck, successfully locating a small blade just like that of the armour he was holding.

He carefully plucked it off and held it before John's eyes. "That's why."

John's eyes bulged, and he looked around wildly for the culprit.

Sherlock spotted him instantly, and pointed. "Hold that man."

"Him? Of course." It was the man he had run into. "How did he do it? Poison?"

"A very dangerous substance," Sherlock replied, holding up the bottle. "One little prick--not too difficult in an outfit like that, at full speed on a horse--and you're almost certain to have a problem. _Especially_ if you are at full speed on a horse."

The killer was being held by two women in corsets, struggling to break away from their grasps as they dragged him over to the stocks. Sherlock followed them, and John dismounted his horse to follow, too.

"Well, sir, I must congratulate you on a somewhat clever murder scheme. I mean, it might have been good to get the poison off the premises. But as it is, I've got the Yard on call."

"They called _you_ ," John pointed out.

"Fair point."

"I can't fucking believe it," the guy said, shaking his head as much as he could in its trap. He indicated John with a slight tip of his chin. "I knew something was up with this one walking around posing as an actor."

Sherlock knelt down to the man's level. "Yes, and so you tried to kill him, too," he said, suddenly serious.

John let out a shout when Sherlock slapped the man. "You do not try to kill _my_ boyfriend."

"I thought he was a detective! How was I supposed to know he was helping the boy wonder solve a murder for no apparent reason?"

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock growled. "You should always be ready"--he slapped him again--"to suffer the consequences."

That night, when it finally hit John that he had almost been a murder victim, he went to the cabinet and took a long swig of vodka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may not have real science to back me up, but hey, I try.


	16. During Their Morning Rituals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1996
> 
> Sherlock: 18  
> John: 21

It was always a treat for Sherlock, being able to stay over at John's flat. It was less of a treat when John had work or class the next morning, but even so, there was something satisfying in dancing around one another as the sun rose.

There were steps to this dance, and admittedly it was always less of a "dance" to begin with. Sleep-mussed hair and bleary eyes, Sherlock glaring at John for waking him up, John trudging to the kettle and drowsily flipping it on before he'd filled it with water--they were ungraceful and uncoordinated in their sleepiness.

Next, with tea in hand, breakfast meant small, reluctant smiles, quick kisses over toast, and Sherlock's insistence that John stay home that day. John reminded him every morning he was there that he was going to Bart's next year, and if he actually wanted to get a degree, he should probably keep working towards it. He would also point out how it would do Sherlock good to find time in his own busy schedule to get to his classes.

After about fifteen minutes of debating the pros and cons of skipping out on their responsibilities, Sherlock would point out that they needed to leave in twenty if they were going to. John would make a surprised yelp and jump up from the table, headed for the bathroom. Sherlock would casually follow him, and do everything in his power to distract him from the devilishly quick shower he took.

That was when the dancing began. When Sherlock was at the mirror, combing his hair, John was below him at the sink, brushing his teeth. Sherlock twirled toward the cupboard to hand John a towel as he began to shave. John would scoff as Sherlock decided it was the perfect opportunity to empty his bladder, with the toilet right next to him. Sherlock would end up crouched beneath John as he hurriedly shaved, brushing his own teeth in turn.

They always passed and waved to John's flatmate as they left, pulling on coats as they rushed out. If he was in a particular mood, Sherlock would even shout, "See you later, Ben," behind them as the door closed, and John wouldn't bother correcting him because they were in a hurry, and it didn't matter anyway, because Sherlock would still get Bill's name wrong next time.

Those times were fun, somehow, when the both of them were rushing through their routine, briefly touching each other on the elbow, the hand, the shoulder, to get them through the morning as quickly as possible. But Sherlock's favorite mornings, of course, occurred during the weekend, and always had him coming back for Saturday nights in John's flat, drinking and laughing and finally going to bed around three AM. Because hours later, when he would open his eyes--always before John--he got to watch him, and kiss him, and perhaps even ride him when he did wake.

It was incredible, waking up in John's flat on Sundays. The morning routine, instead of its usual rush, turned into a sort of ritual that lasted hours before they finally made it out for lunch at one of the places within walking distance. Hours in bed, followed by as much of the hot water they could take before it went cold, and playfully dressing each other made Sunday mornings with John an absolute delight.


	17. Spooning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1997
> 
> Sherlock: 19  
> John: 22

Sherlock didn't think he'd ever been so cold in his life. His fingers shook as he typed, his dressing gown was not nearly thick enough, and it didn't seem to matter how many pairs of socks he wore, because his toes were still chilled far beyond the realm of comfort.

Victor had gone home for the weekend; it was his grandmother's birthday or something just as equally non-thrilling. Lucky him, for not having to reside in the arctic.

It wasn't even snowing outside, just unbearably _cold_. He was tempted to wear his gloves _inside_ , for Christ's sake.

He took an irritated swig of cocoa and returned to the essay he was working on. It wasn't due for another two days, but he had run out of things to do in his hall. If it hadn't been for the cold, and his unwillingness to venture out in it, he wouldn't be writing the damn thing. He would likely instead be at dinner with John, whom he had turned down in favor of staying warm, holed up in his room.

As it turned out, the heating didn't work too well in said room. It occurred to him to call John again and just go out anyway, but it was getting a bit late for a meal, and Sherlock wasn't really very hungry, anyway. So instead, seeing that John was online, he sent him an IM that encapsulated his passive suffering.

_I'm so coooooold. SH_

Sherlock rested his face in his hands before remembering how cold they were and jerking back.

It didn't take long for John to respond, and immediately Sherlock did his best to be as pathetic as possible.

_Is the heat out?_

_No. Just inadequate. SH_

_Put on some socks, you drama queen._

_I'm wearing three pairs already. SH_

John didn't respond immediately, and so Sherlock tapped out another message.

_Come over. SH_

_Oh, but you're making it sound so interesting. Extreme cold and a boyfriend wearing more clothing than usual? Sign me up._

_Your sarcasm is overwhelming. SH_

_Victor's gone for the weekend. SH_

John's last reply came with a bit of a delay.

_I'll be there in 15._

Sherlock waited impatiently, and when he finally heard John's knock, he practically leapt to the door in a single bound.

"Fuck, it _is_ freezing in here," John said in greeting as he pecked Sherlock on the cheek.

"Did you think I was lying?"

"You do tend to be a bit over-dramatic at times."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "This from the man who forced me to stay over because of the storm last week."

"You were going to _walk_ home, Sherlock. It would have been under-dramatic for me to let you."

"'Under-dramatic'?"

John sighed. "You know what I mean."

Sherlock flopped onto his bed. "I've been working on this damned essay all day. It's so tedious. It's exhausting."

John looked at the screen of Sherlock's computer monitor--curse the bloody thing, taking up space in a _dorm room_ \--and saw the single paragraph he'd managed to write. "You did this much in one day?" he said with false incredulity. "How _do_ you do it?"

"Shut up and get over here," Sherlock demanded, chucking a pillow at him.

The corner of John's mouth twitched up and he hung his coat on the hook by the door. He toed off his shoes and pulled up the covers to slide under beside Sherlock. "Big spoon or little?" John asked, because it was always a toss up with Sherlock. Not that John really cared one way or the other, usually.

"Hmm. Little," Sherlock replied.

As John's arms settled around him, Sherlock let out a contented hum. He twined his feet around John's calves and kissed the back of his hand.

"I'm glad you're wearing socks," John muttered.

"Hmm?"

"Your feet are always bloody cold."

"The socks aren't actually helping."

"Yeah, well, they're helping me. Now quit squirming or this'll turn into something dirty."

"What if I want it to?"

"I thought you were tired from your big day of essay-writing."

"I am tired. But just know that if I weren't you'd be fucking me by now."

John kissed Sherlock's shoulder blade through the sweatshirt he wore. _His_ sweatshirt, actually--he'd been looking for that. "For the record, I've had a long day, too. Maybe in the morning," he suggested. Sherlock made an affirmative noise. John felt his breathing slowing, his shivers subsiding as he drifted off.

"'Night, Honeybee."

"Goodnight, John. Go to sleep," Sherlock slurred. John smiled fondly at that lisp he so loved, peeking out as Sherlock neared unconsciousness.

John nestled in close, letting the smell and feel of Sherlock drag him out of the cold and into sleep.


	18. Doing Something Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1998
> 
> Sherlock: 20  
> John: 23

Sherlock threw his pen across the room, nearly landing a perfect hit to John's eye. "I can't take it anymore! If I have to write up one more bloody pointless lab I'll--I'll--"

John raised an annoyed eyebrow. "You'll do what?"

"Urgh! I don't know, something irresponsible!"

"Oh, there's a nice change of pace." John rolled his eyes.

"Oh, shut up, I've been going to class. And doing _all_ of my work."

"Because I withheld sex."

"That's hardly a reflection on me, John. _I've_ not been blackmailing my boyfriend into boring himself to death." Sherlock pitifully dropped his entire form onto the sofa.

"So I'm the villain now, because I want you to actually put that ridiculous brain of yours to good use?"

"That's hardly a good excuse."

"Well, then, I apologise for every time I've ever called you 'brilliant.'"

Sherlock stared at the ceiling and puffed air out of his nostrils. "Bickering is getting us nowhere."

"I'll say," John agreed, slamming his copy of Netter's Atlas shut and dropping it on the desk in front of him. He stood and made his way to the sofa, placing a hand on Sherlock's forehead. "How about we do something today? Just the two of us."

"We have to leave in an hour."

"I'm thinking the museum. Or the park, if you want."

Sherlock stared at him suspiciously. "You've got work."

"I could call in sick."

"School?"

"You'll be okay missing _one day_."

Sherlock considered. "Alright," he finally said.

"Good. Everyone needs a day off every once in a while." John kissed the spot that his hand had just been. "Now get dressed. I'll make some lunch."

It took approximately three minutes for Sherlock to pull on one of his ridiculously well-tailored suits and head to the kitchen, where John was just putting a second sandwich down on a plate.

"So, where are we going?" John asked when they both sat down.

"Museum sounds fine. Haven't gone in ages."

"Nor have I. Should be fun."

"Anywhere else?"

"Pub, maybe? A walk?"

Sherlock nodded. "When are we leaving?"

"As soon as you finish eating."

Sherlock looked down and saw he'd taken only two bites in the time it had taken John to finish his own sandwich. "Right."

Before long, they were climbing out of a taxi and up the steps to the British Museum. They spent far too much of their time stealing glances at each other rather than looking at the exhibits, and when Sherlock finally suggested they go for a pint, they gladly hopped over to the pub across the street.

"This has been...good. Thank you," Sherlock said, taking a sip and leaning on his elbow.

"No, thank you for being a nutter and making me realize it was a good idea."

Sherlock grinned sheepishly. "I am sorry about this morning."

The fondness written all across John's features squeezed Sherlock's heart, forcing it to work that much harder. "You don't have to be sorry. I've known you my whole life, I knew what I was getting into when I asked you to move in."

"So did I, when I agreed to."

"What, terrific taste in music and general concern for your well-being?"

"Well, that, and fantastic sex."

John shushed him and batted his hand, laughing. "That's what we're _both_ getting into, I suppose."

"Poor Bill."

"With all the girls he dragged through that flat?Poor Bill, my arse. Besides, he'll be married soon. Then we'll have the place all to ourselves."

Sherlock liked to think it was the wistful note in John's voice that prompted him to do it, but John would always argue that it was something he tried every opportunity he got. Not that John was really in a spot to mind so much when he felt that Sherlock's foot had slipped from his shoe and into his own lap.

"One month," Sherlock reminded him--as if he needed reminding--while trailing his toes further and further up John's thigh.

"One--one month," John stammered when Sherlock rested the arch of his foot right over his crotch.

Sherlock looked at him in mock concern. "Are you alright?"

John grimaced. "Never better."

"Good," Sherlock replied, then flexed his foot, making John tense against the back of the booth he sat in.

"Hmm." He nodded.

"I think we should get out of here."

"Hmm," John agreed.

"D'you still want to go to the park?"

"Maybe later. If you're up for it." John smirked, pulling on his coat.

Their walk was postponed indefinitely, much to Bill Murray's dismay.


	19. In Formal Wear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1999
> 
> Sherlock: 21  
> John: 24

Sherlock had known the party would be dull, but he'd agreed to attend on the condition that he could bring John as his date. Unfortunately, Mycroft had agreed without any arm-twisting, and so Sherlock had had no grudge to hold against him, and no legitimate excuse to skip it.

It wasn't even that important that 1999 was ending. A new millennium just meant a new year, which just meant a new day for needlessly optimistic people to make promises to themselves and break them within the week. Sherlock knew full well that Mycroft felt the same, but was forced to attend this function, and get as many people as possible to attend with him, because apparently the year 2000 was a _big deal_.

John was excited, which was to be expected. Rather than annoying, as Sherlock normally found others' excitement over trifling events, he found John's commitment to Y2K celebrations endearing. He'd made a list of resolutions, and although John was more disciplined than most, Sherlock had a wager with Molly that they would only last to the 6th, when Sherlock's birthday celebrations would put an end to the ridiculous attempt to eat healthier when Mrs. Hudson came round with some of her mince pies.

Even with John's giddiness, though, Sherlock was ready to leave long before midnight. It was too crowded with men in tails and bow ties and  _top hats_. For God's sake, who wore top hats anymore? Sherlock hadn't even bothered to tame his curls for the occasion, beyond a minimal once-over with the comb. His tuxedo fit perfectly, but he was not going to do Mycroft any favors when it came to any other part of his appearance.

John, however, was the picture of how a man should look in a formal setting. His tie and jacket were pristine, his hair tidy with each strand in place, his shoes practically mirrors. Sherlock had to physically restrain himself by gripping the edge of the table they occupied. He wanted to tear that jacket from John's shoulders, wanted his tie to hang loose around his neck after being thoroughly snogged right in front of every prim old benefactor in attendance. He wanted sex hair, goddammit!

"You alright?" John asked, catching him staring with an oddly empty expression.

"Yeah. Yeah, fine."

"Do I need to cut you off?" he laughed, nodding toward Sherlock's third martini.

"Maybe you should, if you don't want--never mind." Sherlock stopped himself mid-sentence when he realized his thoughts were spilling out of his mouth.

John looked amused. "What?"

"I was just going to say...no. Never mind, that's inappropriate."

John chuckled. "Since when do you condone appropriate behaviour at your brother's events?"

"Touché," Sherlock muttered, then, "If you must know, I was going to tell you what exactly I want to do with that waistcoat."

"Hm, I think I like where this is going."

"Would you like to take a trip to the coat closet to be sure?"

John glanced over his shoulder at Mycroft, conversing cordially with one of the most influential men in the country, and turned to Sherlock with a mischievous sparkle in his eye. He leaned in to whisper in Sherlock's ear. "What if I told you there were things I want to do to improve upon that suit of yours, too?"

Sherlock jumped up from his chair and dragged John to the deserted hall, where he lost all semblance of decorum and threw him up against the wall, latching onto his neck, loosening his tie as he worked his way down past his throat.

"Sherlock," John giggled. "Can't we make it to the closet?"

"Right," Sherlock said, and continued on down the corridor.

When they returned to the party half an hour later, it was just a minute to midnight. Mycroft glared, handing each of them a glass of champagne. "Hope you didn't ruin anyone's coat," he remarked drily.

John actually blushed. The sight of his cheeks reddening under ruffled hair made Sherlock want to jump him all over again.

"Perhaps you should add this to your list of resolutions," Sherlock murmured, just loud enough for John to hear.

"What, 'no more rendezvous in coat closets'?"

"Of course that's not what I was suggesting. I'm advocating for repeat performances."

John looked up as if in contemplation for a moment, then smirked. "Alright."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Perhaps there was something to be said for the new year, after all.


	20. Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2000
> 
> Sherlock: 22  
> John: 25

First, it was the explosion he'd caused in the lab. Then, the report he'd forgotten to write, followed by a call from Mycroft to tell him that their mother was ill, and a letter from the university reminding him to get his tuition fees in on time right on its heels. There was no reason for Sherlock to be happy, and so he had no qualms with sulking around the flat all evening, still fully dressed but for his shoes and jacket.

He was lying forlornly on the sofa when John approached with a sheet from their bed and laid it over him. "Are you going to eat anything?"

"No." Sherlock's face was smushed into the cushions, muffling his voice.

"Alright then. Make sure you don't fall asleep on the sofa again, yeah? I missed you last night."

"Mpfh," was Sherlock's unintelligible reply.

"I'm taking a bath. Just knock if you need anything."

By the time John came out in his dressing gown, damp fringe clinging to his forehead, Sherlock had only changed positions: the sheet was now wrapped around his head, and he was curled up into a ball at one end of the sofa with just his nose and eyes peeking out of his white linen cocoon.

John marched over, determined, and tugged the sheet back, so that Sherlock's curls bounced in celebration of their freedom.

"You are not going to keep sulking on my watch."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "How are you going to stop me?"

"D'you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Then get up."

Sherlock looked at him warily, but slowly stood, letting the sheet remain draped over his shoulders. To his surprise, John walked away, up the stairs and into his old bedroom.

Just as Sherlock wondered whether he was supposed to follow him, John reappeared with a cassette tape in hand. When he started up the stereo, Sherlock recognized the tape he'd made years ago for the anniversary of their first date--the real one, not the one they'd had as kids--and stared at him, puzzled.

"Take my hand," John murmured, holding it out. When Sherlock hesitated, John took control, pulling Sherlock in suddenly and swaying to the quick-paced music. He grinned. "Dance with me."

"This is ridiculous."

"So?"

Very, very reluctantly, Sherlock smiled. "You're an idiot."

"Ah, but you're smiling. So being an idiot's got to count for something."

Swaying turned into gyrating, turned into full-out twirling through the sitting room, dodging furniture and discarded mugs that hadn't yet made their way back to the kitchen. John spun Sherlock around in his sock-feet without letting go of his hand and swung him out, only to pull him back and hold him close as the song's last note faded out, giving way to their laughter.

The next song, just as Sherlock remembered, was more subdued, with a steady rock beat that settled them into a soft back-and-forth. John laid his head on Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock rested his chin on the top of John's head. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." John's thumbs rubbed soothing circles into Sherlock's hips.

"I'm sorry for being such a prat."

"Sherlock, you've been a prat from the time you were in your booster seat. I fell in love with a prat."

"I like to think you help make me more tolerable."

"Or make you worse." John chuckled. "You know, I don't know that either of us really has any say in it. It's in your DNA."

"Then what is it in yours that makes you so insufferable?" Sherlock joked.

"Misplaced charisma."

Sherlock laughed. "Works for me. Makes you a huge flirt, which I can never get enough of."

" _I'm_ a huge flirt? What about you, mister 'one drink and he can't keep his hands off'?"

"Ah, but that's after a drink. At least I don't have the gall to get handsy in the back of a cab."

"That was _one time._ "

"Yes, and I quite enjoyed it, as frustrating as it was."

The song was ending, as was the evening.

John stood on his toes to press his lips to Sherlock's. "Bed?"

"Certainly. But first, let's just...dance for a while."

John smiled and nodded, remembering those school gatherings during their first year together, how they would agree to sneak off together after "one more dance" that always turned into five. "Of course."

"Just a little longer."

"Of course, Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you really want to know what a dork I am, I actually had to make sure the songs I was thinking of fit the time John used them for a mixtape. "I Only Wanna Be With You" (Hootie and the Blowfish) and "Luna" (Smashing Pumpkins).


	21. Cooking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2001
> 
> Sherlock: 23  
> John: 26

It had been ages since Harry had come round, and although John couldn't say he was looking forward to it, he was certainly not going to let that stop him from enjoying time in the kitchen with Sherlock.

He'd discovered long ago that although Sherlock's knowledge of chemistry translated surprisingly well to baking skills, it did not necessarily mean he would be any help making anything but dessert. Birthdays and holidays were times for Sherlock to create culinary masterpieces, but saucepans and knives were not his forte. Therefore, it could be said that leaving Sherlock to make dinner on his own was the stupidest idea John had probably ever had, and he was glad he didn't follow through on it as he watched Sherlock dice tomatoes with his fingers in prime A&E trip position.

John took the knife and directed him to the pot, where the pasta bubbled away inside. "Stir that a moment, would you?"

"Stir it?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"To make sure it doesn't stick. The big spoon is right next to it."

"What if I don't want to be the big spoon?" Sherlock smiled cheekily.

"Too bad. It makes me feel safer," John countered.

"Safer?"

"Yeah. I'd much rather have you stirring than slicing."

"You don't trust me with a knife?"

"I don't think _you_ should trust you with a knife."

"Oh, please, John, I'm an expert in fencing. I am perfectly capable of handling a small blade."

"Last month's sutures say otherwise."

"That was completely different!" Sherlock protested.

"You decided the most efficient way to slice a cucumber would be to slice _between your fingers_. Of course this time is different, I've taken the knife away."

Sherlock grumbled, out of arguments. "What else do you want me to do?" he huffed.

John looked around, then looked back at the pot, and, at a loss, replied, "Keep stirring."

"Really, John?"

"Yes," John said firmly, mostly to reassure himself that it was worth the argument that was bound to occur.

Sherlock didn't argue, though--perhaps the wait amidst broken limbs and pain-induced vomit for the wound in his hand to be closed really had affected him. In any case, Sherlock's silent turning of the spoon in the pot soon turned into a concerned whine. "Er, John?"

"Yeah?" John said, still turned toward the sink.

"Isn't the water supposed to stay  _inside_ the pot?"

"What?" John demanded, whipping around to face him.

The pot was boiling over, and he shot across the kitchen to turn off the burner. "Sherlock, get away from--"

He was cut off by a scream as Sherlock's elbow bumped the pot, sending boiling water to the floor. John knew he was too late when Sherlock began hopping from foot to foot, whimpering.

"Jesus--Sherlock, come on." He dragged Sherlock to the bathroom and forced him to sit on the edge of the tub. Studying Sherlock's feet, he turned the taps. "Doesn't look too bad, just some first-degree burns. Here," he said, and promptly shoved Sherlock's feet under the cold spray.

Sherlock yelped and jerked away, but John held fast, and soon he was sighing in relief.

"I can't believe you bloody burned your _feet_ in the _kitchen_..."

Sherlock glared, but had no response.

There was a knock at the door, and a muffled call from Harry in the stairwell.

"How did she get in?"

Sherlock shrugged and rolled his eyes. "It's not like it's hard."

John took a quick look at Sherlock's feet, instructed him to stay, then went to greet his sister.

"Hi, Harry."

"John. Where's Sherlock?"

"He's...burned himself."

"Burned himself? He's not at A&E again, is he?"

"No, he's um...he's in the bathroom."

Harry narrowed her eyes at John's tone, his badly-suppressed laughter puzzling her. "The bathroom?" Without so much as a warning, she rounded the corner and, when she spotted Sherlock perched on the edge of the tub with his feet propped under the tap, barked out a laugh.

Sherlock, startled, attempted to regain some of his dignity, but only managed to fall into the tub.

"Harry, leave it," John warned.

"How did it happen?" she asked, still clearly amused.

"Knocked over a boiling pot," Sherlock grumbled, now damp as well as burned.

Harry shook her head. "I should have known it was something ridiculous. Only you could burn your feet in the kitchen."

Sherlock looked positively murderous, and John knew that dinner was at least going to be interesting.


	22. In Battle, Side-by-Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2002
> 
> Sherlock: 24  
> John: 27

It was such a rush, running alongside Sherlock as they were going after a suspect, or, as in this case, being chased _by_ a suspect.

"John!"

He found himself being dragged into an alley and pressed against a wall just as they were rounding a corner.

"Here," Sherlock panted, nearly grinning.

"Are we--?"

" _Shh!_ "

Frantic footsteps sped by on the main road. They didn't take their eyes off each other for a solid minute, John with his chest heaving, Sherlock with a finger to his lips.

"Sherlo--"

John was cut off by a searing kiss, his hands suddenly held against the brick on either side of his head. His voice melted into a soft whimper.

When they finally broke apart, he whispered, "Do we really still need to be quiet?"

Sherlock grinned. "No."

"Just fancied a bit of snogging in an alley, did we?"

He shrugged. "Let's get back to the Yard," Sherlock suggested, leading John back out onto the street.

"Don't move!"

Just as they'd come back around the corner, Sherlock and John froze at the same panicked, barking voice that had followed them out of the park and through the city. Slowly, they turned to face the suspect who'd chased them.

"You're to follow me now," he said, his lip trembling.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I don't think so," he replied, taking a step forward, but he stopped when he saw the knife the man clutched in his left hand. He remembered his deductions from earlier-- _left handed, with scars that indicate the practice of twirling a small blade nervously_ \--but dismissed them, recognizing their triviality in this moment.

"No, you will," the man shot back.

John rolled his eyes and sighed, reached out a hand, and twisted the suspect's dominant arm behind him, slamming him against the wall of the building next to them and forcing him to drop his weapon.

Sherlock picked it up, then rounded on John, still holding the struggling suspect against the wall. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"Harry took kung fu for years. I tagged along a lot. And this one really shouldn't skip the gym if he's going to go chasing people who are bigger than him."

"Oh."

"Call Lestrade, please," John grunted.

"Oh, right." He flipped open his brand-new mobile phone.

By the time Lestrade's team arrived, Sherlock and John were gone, the suspect safely cuffed to a lamppost on the corner with a note.

"I cannot believe--you just--shoved him--and he just--dropped the knife," Sherlock groaned between rough kisses against the door of 221B.

"I can't believe"--John gasped as Sherlock nipped the sensitive spot below his ear--"you left him tied to a lamppost."

"Handcuffed to a lamppost," Sherlock corrected.

"Like bloody...Batman....Oh, yes, that, do that again, _God_."

"Batman?" Sherlock murmured against John's throat.

"You know, Batman. Comic book? Brooding, billionaire...forget it."

"Gladly."

As fantastic as the chases were, this was the best part of a case, in John's opinion--the conclusion of if all, when they got to go home and make out like teenagers until they passed out on the sofa, exhausted from days without substantial sleep. Usually they at least made it long enough to see Lestrade make the arrest.

"You're going to have to teach me that," Sherlock muttered when they'd finally stumbled into the sitting room.

"What?"

"That thing you did. To disarm the suspect."

"So you can do it to me?"

Sherlock stopped. "What makes you say that? That's not what I was suggesting at all." He realized a bit late that he was speaking very quickly.

"Maybe _I_ was suggesting it." John smirked. "I'll teach you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Sherlock growled, bending down to kiss John's neck again.


	23. Arguing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2003
> 
> Sherlock: 25  
> John: 28

When John got the call from his mother, he didn't know what to say. The questions she asked drove little spikes through his chest.

"Will you help me get everything in order?"

"Do you still have your old suit?"

"Will you ask Harry to come? Do you think she will?"

He noticed she didn't ask about Sherlock. Frankly, he was glad she didn't.

When he hung up the phone, there was a sort of ringing in his ears that he couldn't quite place. When he saw Sherlock enter the sitting room from the corner of his eye, he realized he was angry, but he couldn't tell what or who had caused it.

"Morning," Sherlock said shortly, without looking at him.

John said nothing, simply sipped his tea.

It was a long while before either of them spoke. "My dad died last night. Mum was there, said it was peaceful."

Sherlock made an uninterested noise.

John glared at him, lying across the sofa with his hands pressed together under his chin. "Did you even hear me? I said my dad is _dead_."

"Yes, I heard you."

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

"You know perfectly well why I didn't say anything. I have nothing to say."

It was becoming increasingly difficult for John not to raise his voice. "Why are you doing this, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Fine," John said, letting himself rise in anger. "I'm going to meet my mother for lunch to discuss my father's funeral arrangements. Would you care to join me?"

Sherlock snorted derisively. "No, I don't think so."

He tried not to show a reaction when John suddenly kicked the table, but he couldn't help but jump a little.

" _Fine_ ," John hissed. "Alright. You want to play this game? You've been playing it since he was diagnosed, you insensitive prick. For months, you've been moping around the flat, grumbling about me being at the _hospital_ , and not _once_ have you considered how I might feel. My dad was on his deathbed, Sherlock! My _dad!_ "

"Why should I care?" Sherlock was clearly near tears, but so far he'd managed to hold onto them. He leapt up from the sofa and threw his arms about in a great display of stabbing irony. "It's not as if he would want me to care. He wouldn't want _you_ to care. You've got to be a _man_ , John, don't cry over your old man, he'll surely see you someday on that great rugby pitch in the sky with all the other Watson _men!_ "

"Oh, not this again."

"No, this again! Definitely this again! Don't worry, John, I'm sure you'll see him again. 'You're strong, and capable, and by God, you'll marry a good girl someday, I'd reckon. Of course, you should maybe dump that little friend of yours, I think he might be a poof'!"

Sherlock's hysteria was catching, and John was shaking with the effort of not breaking down into sobs.

Of course, Sherlock saw right through that. "Oh, John, don't _cry_ ," he mocked. "You might not make it up to see him again."

"Why are you doing this?" he repeated softly.

"Because after years of telling me you love me and kissing my arsehole and fucking me all over this bloody flat, you still couldn't admit it to your father. And before that, I had to sit there for dinner at your house at fourteen years old and hear him talk about 'that goddamned shirt lifter from the office' and pretend it was funny because we'd just snogged ten minutes before. And before _that_ , he'd had you so brainwashed that you shoved me on the playground for kissing you. Your entire life has been a messy attempt to keep your loving relationship a secret from your father. Congratulations, you've succeeded, and now you can get on with your life. So I'm sorry if I'm not too torn up about him being gone."

John didn't trust himself not to throw something. Fists clenched, he turned his back on Sherlock, breathing deeply. "I'm going to meet my mother," John repeated, dangerously quiet. "We are going to arrange my dad's funeral. If you don't like that...I don't know."

Sherlock didn't say anything.

John pulled his coat from the hook and didn't say anything. His gloves were in the closet, but it hardly mattered. He wanted out of that flat.

When he was gone, Sherlock dressed much more slowly than usual. He stared at his microscope, but didn't touch it. He played a few notes on his violin before getting the feeling that the flat was too empty to play to without John at least listening in the periphery. He even started to dial Mycroft, but decided against it. Eventually, he dragged on his coat and took a walk.

He stopped by the Yard, but left quickly when Lestrade asked where John was.

He went by Angelo's--what a mistake _that_ had been.

He came to the park and sat on the bench where John had kissed him five years ago, after moving his things into the flat and getting a bite to eat at the stand on the corner. He smiled sadly at the memory.

They'd been on rocky terrain for weeks, since John had begun spending more time with his dying father. He should have known it was only a matter of time before the tinderbox exploded into the largest fight they'd had to date.

Sherlock knew he should be less juvenile. He knew it was more complicated than dismissing John's feelings about his father, who had always been a decent man outside of his unyielding attitude toward traditionally intolerant values. But Sherlock couldn't move past it. At times, it had felt like a personal attack, like John's father had always known he was gay, and was doing everything he could to make sure his son wasn't being "corrupted." There had been times he could laugh about it--like the time when John's father had called him in the middle of a blowjob, or when John had cheekily teased him under the table at Christmas dinner. But for the most part, he resented the man, and he felt childish, but he resented John for letting him get away with the things he said, even if he had avoided him as much as possible for a solid decade.

It was dark by the time Sherlock headed back to the flat. The lights were all off, and as soon as he approached the door, he knew something was wrong.

He sprinted up the stairs, dodged the door on the landing, and stopped dead at the sight of the square of paper in the middle of the table, twitching in the wind from the open window, but ultimately weighed down by the words on the page.


	24. Making Up Afterwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2004
> 
> Sherlock: 26  
> John: 29

All of that processing and training, and then two months actually spent in the field, and here John was, back in London, limping along, wondering what in the world he was going to do next.

Though Harry had called him, he hadn't bothered to call back. He didn't want to speak to her, and he didn't think she really wanted to speak to him.

It was surreal, being back in the city, even for as short a time as he'd been in Afghanistan. Nothing was different, but it all seemed that way.

Perhaps _he_ was different.

He turned onto the path through the park, planning on cutting across to the café he'd frequented in the days leading up to his deployment. The place was one of the few in London that didn't remind him of... _him_.

It was as he passed a bench that he vaguely registered as occupied that he heard a voice shout his name in surprise. Surely it couldn't be meant for him, so he kept walking, until the voice said, loudly and clearly, "John Watson!"

He turned stoically.

"Mike. Mike Stamford." The man held out a hand.

"Right. Sorry, Mike."

"Care to sit? Or are you in a hurry?"

John gestured with his brand-new cane. "Don't see how I could be in much of a hurry," he joked, but it came out much more bitterly than he'd intended.

"Where have you been?" Mike asked, sitting back down on the bench and picking up a sandwich.

John sighed. "Been abroad."

"Where?"

"Afghanistan."

"Oh, getting shot at, then. What happened?"

John stared at him. "I got shot."

Mike seemed to realize his mistake, but took it in stride. "Well, that's bad luck. But I'm sure Sherlock's happy to have you home. How is he, anyway?"

"You mean you don't see him in the lab anymore?"

Mike shook his head. "Hasn't been in for ages. I thought maybe he had one added on to your flat," he laughed.

"It's not--we're...not..."

"Oh." Mike hung his head. "Sorry."

"No, I mean...it just...didn't work."

It was a while before Mike spoke again. He put a kind hand on John's shoulder. "I really am sorry to hear that, John."

Late that night, John sat in the tiny apartment he was guaranteed to vacate before long, nearly tearing his hair out, he was so bored.

He decided on another walk.

It was a pretty dodgy part of town: drug dealers on nearly every corner, with crack dens in-between. He was unsurprised to come across a few addicts on the street, track marks barely hidden by jackets with half-rolled sleeves, always a signal to avoid someone who was likely high. Some of them didn't even look his way; others gazed at him, unblinking, seeming to wonder whether he was worth mugging. All of them came to the conclusion that he wasn't. Not that he cared--he had his gun tucked safely into his coat.

The sounds were what he cared for most. Because most of the junkies went on their way silently--aside from the occasional mumbler--John could listen to the distant traffic of the inhabitable parts of the city. The sounds of the Thames faded to a small murmur; his own breaths, not laboured, but shallow--all he did was listen.

Which was how he heard someone crying as he passed a deserted side-road.

There was no real reason to follow the sound, just morbid curiosity and the cruelty of a lifetime of conditioning to respond to the sound.

When he rounded another corner into a small alley, he found the source of the crying to be a huddled mass on the ground, wrapped in an all-too-familiar coat that knocked the wind out of him and almost made him fall to his knees.

"Sherlock?" he whispered, almost imperceptibly quiet.

The man's neck made a painful crackling sound as his head shot up. The sight of him _did_ bring John to his knees.

"Oh, my God, Sherlock. Jesus. Sherlock." He wanted to throw his arms around his neck, hold him there in the alley for days, but held himself back. Instead, he tenderly touched his fingers to the bruises along Sherlock's cheek.

"John," Sherlock gasped through tears, and clung to him.

John crouched there on the asphalt, his mouth agape, tears flowing freely from his wide-open eyes.

"John, John, John," Sherlock kept muttering weakly against his shoulder, smearing blood on his coat.

"Sherlock," John uttered in disbelief.

A few moments later, Sherlock went slack in John's arms.

"Sherlock?" John said, alarmed to find him losing consciousness. Carefully, he lifted him and carried him the few blocks to his flat, never once stopping, even when Sherlock woke and started slurring through deductions on where he'd been for the past year. Not even when his shoulder began to ache so badly that he thought it would give out completely.

Adrenaline shoved him through it until he was able to drop Sherlock onto the little bed. He clutched at his shoulder and collapsed into the chair at his desk, eyes clamped shut in pain.

"John?" Sherlock murmured, and his eyes shot open.

"Sherlock." He lunged forward, taking in the purple-and-yellow blotches and gashes all over his face. He stroked his jaw gently. "What happened to you, Honeybee?"

Sherlock snorted. "I'm not your Honeybee anymore, if I recall," he snapped halfheartedly.

John almost slapped him. "You might need an ambulance. What _happened_ , Sherlock?"

"I was assaulted," Sherlock finally answered.

"Who assaulted you?"

Sherlock hesitated. "My dealer."

"Your--your _dealer?_ "

Sherlock nodded, refusing to look at him.

"And...and what has he been selling you?"

"Morphine. Some cocaine here and there," Sherlock replied, matter-of-factly, but with less of his former bravado.

John paused. "Are you high right now?"

Sherlock's silence was the loudest thing in the room.

"Right." John lifted the phone from the bedside table. "I'm calling Mycroft."

"No."

"Yes, Sherlock."

"You don't know his number."

"I'll call the operator and ask for the biggest prat at Downing Street."

"You won't find him."

"Just give me the fucking number, Sherlock."

"Why should I?"

"Because no matter what you think, I never stopped loving you. Now give me your brother's goddamned phone number. Please."

Silently, Sherlock dialed the number.

"Hello, Mycroft," John said into the receiver.

"John?" Mycroft didn't quite sound surprised, but rather, confused.

"Yeah, it's John. Listen, do you know where your brother is?"

"With you, I take it."

"Yes. Do you know where I found him?"

"On the street?"

"Yes. High."

Mycroft sighed deeply.

"Is there something we can do about that?"

"Me? No. I've tried everything. But perhaps you could help."

John stared at Sherlock, who stared back with wide eyes, unaware of the conversation that was happening on the other end.

"Right." He hung up, knowing from years of experience that there was nothing else he was going to get out of Mycroft Holmes. "Come on."

"What?"

"Let's go."

"Where?"

"Are you still living at 221B?"

Sherlock was slow in his answer. "Yes."

John called a cab and sat next to Sherlock on the bed with his medical kit, dabbing at his wounds. "What did you say?" he asked after a while, his voice still gruff.

"Hmm?"

"What did you say to get assaulted?"

"I...I didn't. He just...he was..." Sherlock took a deep breath and held it for a moment, before letting it out in one big _whoosh_. "I was late on a payment."

"And?"

"That's it."

"It doesn't sound like it."

Sherlock hesitated. "I...he....I can't talk about it, John."

John knew that was the final word on the matter.

They sat in silence until the cab arrived, then ushered each other into it. John had left his cane behind in the alley, proving that Ella was at least right about some things, but also making things rather more difficult at the moment. His shoulder still burned, and he cursed the past year, cursed his decision to leave Baker Street in the first place, his addiction to danger, the things Sherlock's absence had done to him...the things his absence had done to Sherlock.

When they entered the old flat, John actually took a step back at the mess. It was more cluttered than ever before, with a layer of dust in places that Mrs. Hudson clearly hadn't been able to reach for months.

They made their way carefully to the sofa and sat on opposite ends.

"What now?" Sherlock said.

"Do you want to talk?"

"What about?"

John didn't have an answer, so said nothing.

After a while, Sherlock laid down with his head in John's lap. John stiffened, but didn't move.

"Why did you go?" Sherlock asked, and he sounded like the confused little boy who'd kissed John on the playground so long ago.

"I don't know."

"Did you mean it earlier? When you said you still loved me."

John found himself softly stroking Sherlock's curls, falling back into old habits despite himself. "Yes."

Sherlock was obviously crashing, and John wasn't going to stop him from getting some sleep if it meant keeping him away from another dose of whatever he'd taken. Morphine, it looked like, and he knew it could have been worse, but he didn't want to take any chances.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you here?"

"Yeah, Sherlock, I'm here."

Sherlock didn't say another word, but closed his eyes and left John to his own thoughts as he watched him for hours.

When he finally woke, he stared at John like he was looking at a ghost. "So...you're really here."

"Of course."

"I didn't dream that up."

"No, I'm here. But I should probably go." He stood and stepped gingerly toward the door. "If...if you need anything, I can leave my number..."

Sherlock stared at him for a long while. John felt like he couldn't move, like he was pinned in place.

"John?"

"Yeah?" John said breathlessly.

"Come home."


	25. Gazing Into Each Other's Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2005
> 
> Sherlock: 27  
> John: 30

Sherlock never failed to amaze John in his deductive power, even after all these years. There was nothing surprising about it anymore, but it was still thrilling, watching him reduce the suspect before them to an angry mass of bad intentions.

"John, call Lestrade," he finished, and John immediately complied. He turned away to make the call.

Which was how, with a shout from Sherlock, he ended up with a knife in his thigh.

He managed to stop himself from screaming out loud, but grunted as he struggled to turn and lean against the wall, watching Sherlock pin his assailant to the floor.

John heard Lestrade's voice from his mobile, but couldn't answer, too focused on keeping his breaths regulated.

Sherlock reached over and picked up the phone, sitting firmly on the suspect's shoulder blades, and held it to his ear. "Lestrade, if you're not here in ten minutes, you might have to arrest _me_."

John rolled his eyes. Not that he didn't think Sherlock capable of snapping the man's neck in some cleverly painful way.

"John's been stabbed."

John studied the knife. He found that it had not gone very far into the flesh of his leg, but knew better than to remove it.

"No, it was a freak accident involving a stray tree branch and a slippery patch of ice. Of _course_ it was the suspect!"

"Sherlock, it's alright," John tried.

"You've now a total of eight minutes and twenty-seven seconds." He hung up without another word and reached a hand out to John. "Are you alright?"

"Sherlock, I just said--"

"D'you really have to _sit_ on me?" the suspect piped up.

Sherlock smashed the man's nose against the wooden floor. John could have sworn he saw a dent where his forehead struck it.

Lestrade arrived before Sherlock could do anything rash, along with an ambulance, which John was loaded into, practically batting away hands that intended to check his pulse.

"I'm fine," he barked. Let's just get this thing cleaned up, yeah?"

Sherlock hovered constantly at his side, now that the suspect was cuffed in the back of a police car. "Are you sure?"

"Sherlock, I'm a bloody doctor. I'm going to be perfectly fine. Promise."

"I...I know that," Sherlock muttered, but still clutched at John's fingers tightly all the way to the hospital.

They made Sherlock leave while they cleaned and sutured the wound, mostly because he wouldn't stop babbling apologies and telling the doctor how to do her job.

John grimaced. "Sorry about him."

"Oh, he's just had a fright. See it all the time with spouses. No worries."

"We're--we're not--"

"Oh, sorry. I just assumed, with him kissing you goodbye and all."

John went red. "Oh, we're together. We just...we're not married."

"Oh, of course not. Not in legal terms, I suppose."

His blush deepened, but he didn't say anything. He thought about all the times he'd wondered whether they  _should_ get married--in as legal a sense as possible, of course. Mrs. Hudson seemed to think it was a brilliant idea. Mycroft had actually asked John a few weeks ago whether he was planning on proposing, though he'd known full well he wasn't. Just that morning, Lestrade had joked about their bickering, calling them an old married couple. And despite all they'd been through in that year apart, they had fallen back together effortlessly, with only small hiccups in the form of nightmares and relapses, and even those were very few.

Perhaps they _were_ ready for marriage.

"Alright, Doctor Watson, as I'm sure you're aware, you're going to be in pain for a little while, and you'll probably be limping for a little while longer," the doctor attending to him said as she finished closing and dressing his wound. "You're welcome to stay overnight, but I'm going to prescribe some painkillers for when you go home."

"Ta."

"I'll let your...him back in now."

"Right."

She left and Sherlock reentered. He immediately took a seat in the chair she'd vacated and picked up John's hand again. "Are you alright?"

"For the thousandth time, Sherlock, _yes_."

"Not in pain?"

"A little."

"I'm sorry."

John's brow furrowed. "What for?"

"For putting you in danger like that. I was stupid."

"Sherlock," John started, practically laughing. "If you think I didn't willingly enter that house knowing there was danger, then I don't think you've been around for the hundreds of other times I've followed you into a potentially dangerous situation."

"Still, I should have seen he had a knife."

"Where was it?"

"Jacket."

John shook his head. "I just can't believe you didn't notice the knife he had concealed inside his jacket," John teased, and Sherlock finally smiled, though hesitantly.

"I don't suppose it really was my fault." The smile faded momentarily. "But still. I am sorry." Sherlock stared sincerely into John's eyes, a silent vow in his own.

John studied the flecks of green and silver for what seemed like the millionth time, but was still just as mesmerizing as the first, when, in the hall at school, he'd been overcome with the urge to kiss Sherlock for the first time as his boyfriend, and he'd pulled away to see wonder and innocence and pure, unadulterated joy in those ridiculous eyes of his.

His eyes were older now, wiser, but still full of life--sparks of mischief and intelligence were permanently etched into them despite their solemnity. John wanted to paint those eyes, which was odd, because he'd never felt the desire to paint anything in his life, but he knew it would be fruitless, because even the most masterful artist would never be able to capture the thing that made them Sherlock's.

"John," Sherlock said suddenly, breaking him from his reverie, but still never breaking eye contact.

"Yes?"

"Would you mind...that is to say, do you want to..."

"Want to...what?"

Sherlock finally looked away. "Get married?"

John let out all of his breath in a rush, but didn't answer for a few moments. "Yes, I think so."

Sherlock blinked and pulled a face. "You _think so?_ "

John rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean."

"No, I don't. What _do_ you mean, you 'think so'?"

"It's just that--I've been thinking. And I think we should." He squeezed Sherlock's hand. "I love you, Sherlock. You're my best friend. I've never felt the same way for anyone. And you're a damn good shag," he joked. Sherlock shook his head as John continued. "I've already spent most of my life with you. I want to spend the rest of it with you, too."

"You...think so?"

"I'm sure we can confirm that yes, I think I do."

"I...I do, too."

John smirked. "You think so?"

Sherlock grinned. "Shut up."


	26. Getting Married

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2006
> 
> Sherlock: 28  
> John: 31

Greg struggled to keep his grin under control as Sherlock paced the room.

"What if I say the wrong thing? Or if John starts crying?" He stopped, stared straight ahead in horror. "What if _I_ start crying?"

"Sherlock, relax," Greg said, patting him on the back. "It's your wedding day, you're allowed to cry."

"But I don't want to cry in front of everyone."

"Then I'll tell them to turn their backs. Look, everyone expects you to be emotional--"

"They do?"

"Well...some of us do. But don't let it get to you. You're marrying the love of your life."

Sherlock sighed, and Greg silently rejoiced that his attempt to calm the mad groom was working. "I am."

Greg smiled and nodded. "You've been planning for months. Just go out there and do it like the rehearsal."

"Have you seen John?"

"Just left him."

"Is he...nervous?"

"Yes."

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. "Alright."

"Ready?"

Sherlock gazed at the door. It seemed further away than it had been. "The game is on."

Sherlock's mother had come up with the plan for them to come in from opposite sides of the congregation. He took her arm and let her lead him as the music swelled.

It was a lot longer walk down that aisle than he remembered, with everyone in his immediate vicinity staring at him. He tried to block out their fond smiles as he walked, and nearly tripped over his aunt's handbag that was sitting in the aisle.

By the time he and John met before the officiant, his breaths were shallower than he would have ever thought possible without passing out. He took John's hands, his own shaking.

It wasn't that he didn't want to be here. He was excited--truly overjoyed--to be marrying John. The problem came in the form of about fifty people looking at him expectantly. He wondered what it was about crowds that sapped all recollection of memorized words as he silently panicked over his vows.

When he finally looked up, John was beaming at him, but frowned after a second. "You okay?" he mouthed covertly, and Sherlock nodded shakily.

"Family and friends, we are gathered here today to witness and celebrate the union of John Hamish Watson and William Sherlock Scott Holmes..."

Sherlock, still shaking like a leaf, rolled his eyes. John snorted.

The officiant stopped and glared at him.

John's eyes went wide. "S-sorry. Go on."

Sherlock found himself grinning from ear to ear, trying to contain himself.

The man went on, and as he did, Sherlock's nerves were put on ice. He was amused by the looks John gave him in response to some of the things the officiant said, and all uncertainty drained out of him.

"Repeat after me," the man came to eventually, and it reminded Sherlock so much of a pompous schoolteacher that he had to squeeze John's hands tightly to keep from laughing out loud. "I, John Hamish Watson..."

"I, John Watson..."

Sherlock bit his lip, now fighting back tears of mirth at John's omission of his loathed middle name. The officiant simply glared at him again.

"...do take you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, to be mine."

"...do take you, Sherlock Holmes, to be mine."

Sherlock could practically hear Mycroft's eye-roll, but he was nonetheless amused.

"To have and to hold, from this day forward..."

"To have and to hold, from this day forward..."

Sherlock almost stopped listening. It wasn't as though the words weren't meaningful, but it was just that--they were words. What he really cared for, he realized, was the way John was saying them, with absolute joy and tenderness, and a bit of an endearingly mocking tone at the particularly stupid bits. By the time he'd finished and it was Sherlock's turn, it no longer bothered him whether or not he said the words right, so long as he sounded as utterly in love with John as he was--which was certainly not a difficult thing to do.

As the pageboy--John's young cousin--came forward with the rings, Sherlock risked a glance at his parents and saw, of all things, his mother passing a handkerchief to Mrs. Hudson. John's mother sat proudly beside them, her tears close to falling, but still sparkling in her eyes.

"I...give you this...ring," Sherlock said, hands shaking from excitement this time, "as a symbol of my love as I give to you all that I am, and accept from you, all that you are."

"I give you this ring," John repeated, letting it hover over the tip of Sherlock's finger before sliding it on, "as a symbol of my love, as I give you all that I am, and accept from you... _all_ that you are."

Sherlock was startled by John's sudden solemnity, to the effect of his nearly missing being introduced to the world as "William Sherlock Scott Watson-Holmes" and the opportunity to subsequently scoff at such a ridiculously long name.

But scoff, he did, and was entirely too relieved when he was allowed to kiss John, whose lips were soft and kind and experienced in precisely the right way to tell Sherlock how he felt without words.


	27. On One of Their Birthdays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2007
> 
> Sherlock: 29  
> John: 32

John stared into the mirror. He ran his palms down his cheeks and sighed.

Thirty-two.

He would be lying if he said he was looking forward to getting older. Sure, he had Sherlock, and he would always love him, and there was certainly no end to casework in sight. But, funnily enough, although it was his birthday, it was the knowledge that Sherlock would turn 30 in just a few months that made him feel old. He didn't feel as old as he'd thought he would at, say, fifteen, but he was still struck by the notion of aging as he watched lines appear in new places each year, felt new stiffness at times, beyond the normal twinges in his leg that warned him of rain.

The day had been spent quietly at Harry's. Clara had cooked dinner, which was lovely. They'd left before Harry could pull out the booze.

As John remained at the mirror, cataloging this year's new lines, Sherlock brushed past him to hang a towel on the hook. Immediately after, he turned and pecked John on the cheek. "Are you alright?"

John sighed again. "I'm getting old."

"You're getting older, sure."

"I'm middle-aged."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And you call _me_ a drama queen. You're not middle-aged. You're thirty-two. You're younger than my mother was when I was born."

"I know I'm being dramatic. Leave me to it, you prat."

"Why should I let you beat yourself up over something you can't control? Especially something that doesn't matter?"

John shook his head. "Forget it. It's late, we should get to bed."

Sherlock looked startled. "It's only ten o'clock."

"May as well get some sleep."

"You don't even want your gift?" Sherlock asked him. He gave him a sultry look, pulled him in by the hips.

"I suppose."

"You suppo--? For God's sake." Sherlock broke away to march up to the spare bedroom, John shouting after him the whole way.

"Sherlock, what are you doing up there?"

When he finally came back, Sherlock clutched something close to himself. When John tried to catch a glimpse of it, it was immediately concealed by Sherlock's jacket as he put it on.

He handed John a jumper. "Put this on, there's a chill tonight."

"Where are we going?" John asked, suspicious.

Sherlock didn't reply, just raised his eyebrows expectantly, still holding out John's jumper.

They walked to their destination, and John was completely baffled as to where they might be headed. He had been frustrated when they'd reached the street and Sherlock had turned to walk instead of hailing a cab, because it meant that he could be kept in the dark a bit longer without Sherlock having to tell a cabbie where to go.

"Come on," Sherlock muttered, and turned left into a small park. They were walking toward a playground, and John squinted, a distant memory just at the edge of his consciousness.

"Sherlock...what is this?"

"You don't remember?"

"Of course I do. But...why did we come here?"

Once again, Sherlock failed to answer, but instead held out what he'd concealed from John for the whole walk over. "Here. Put these on."

John looked at what Sherlock was offering him and laughed out loud. "Rabbit ears?"

Sherlock feigned offence. "Our first real kiss was with these rabbit ears. Now put them on."

John rolled his eyes, but did so anyway, brushing dust from them. Sherlock donned his own ears and took John's hand for the first time since leaving the flat.

John raised an eyebrow as he was led over to the monkey bars. Sherlock sat on the ground, and urged him to do the same.

They sat in silence for a moment, staring at each other. Then Sherlock said, "Remember the first time you held my hand?"

John nodded. "I do remember. You were...three years old?"

"Mhmm. And you were six." Sherlock leaned in and kissed him.

John smiled wistfully. "Ah, the good old days," he joked.

"The good old days, huh?" Sherlock kissed him again, but with more heat this time. "What do you call today, then?"

John hummed thoughtfully, letting Sherlock's lips trail down his jaw. "I actually think this might be better."

"See?"

"What?"

"Most things are the same as they've always been, but there are advantages to getting older."

John grinned. "Why are you always right?"

Sherlock shrugged, still mouthing at John's throat. "I just am."

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls. He touched the band on his left ring finger to remind himself that there was nothing wrong with another year, especially if he got to spend it with Sherlock.


	28. Doing Something Ridiculous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2008
> 
> Sherlock: 30  
> John: 33

A pub crawl for Lestrade's stag do had seemed a good idea in the beginning, all the way up until about two pubs ago. That was when it had suddenly turned into a _great_ idea.

It felt that way to Sherlock and John, at least, after about a million drinks. Greg had to agree; watching Sherlock and John completely plastered had to be the highlight of the night. The next place on the list was just around the corner, but in the time it took them to walk there, they got into two playful shouting matches and what felt like the beginnings of foreplay before Greg had to break it up.

"Calm yourselves down before I have to arrest you for public indecency," he laughed.

John gave him the finger without even pausing in his assault on Sherlock's mouth.

Greg chuckled as they approached the place. "At least get inside the building before you start getting each other off."

Everyone tumbled in, intent on at least one more stop before calling it a night. That was when they noticed the stage, the screen, and the middle-aged drunk woman belting into a microphone.

"A karaoke bar?!" John shouted, although it wasn't exactly loud enough to warrant shouting.

Sherlock threw his hands up into the air. "A karaoke bar!" he confirmed.

Greg smirked. "Are you gonna sing something?"

"Of course!" Sherlock lisped, and everyone in their party looked at him in shock, including John.

" _You're_ going to do karaoke?" he asked skeptically.

"Nooooo."

"Then why--"

" _We're_ going to do karaoke."

John cocked his head, his face splitting into a grin. "Oh, God, yes."

Sherlock dragged him over to choose a song.

It was getting rather late, with many patrons either leaving or too drunk to even hold a microphone, so it was only about ten minutes before they took the stage. Greg and the rest of their party whooped and whistled as they made it to their places.

When the song started, Sherlock's slurring and lisping contrasted comically with the gravelly level of his voice. " _I've been waiting for so long, now I've finally found someone to stand by me._ "

" _Saw the writing on the wall, never felt this magical fantasy,_ " John sang in response.

They laughed through the next few lines, struggling to actually read the words, but when they reached the chorus, they hardly stumbled at all.

" _I've had the time of my life, no I've never felt this way before..._ "

Sherlock almost tossed his mic away when he put a hand on John's hip and started to actually dance. He tried to lead, but mostly ended up having trodden all over John's feet. They twirled and sang, giggling through the lyrics.

Greg, on the sidelines, was surprised Sherlock knew that song at all, let alone the majority of the moves from _Dirty Dancing_. What Greg didn't know--but John did--was that not only was it the first movie that they had ever interrupted to make out, but that Sherlock also had a bit of a thing for Patrick Swayze.

So, when it came to the lift, they were as prepared as two amateur dancers who had been drinking heavily for hours could possibly be. John ran at Sherlock, who held out his arms to hoist him over his head. The result was a pile of limbs that groaned from the floor in front of the raised platform.

That was the last pub they went to. After that, Greg had had mercy on them all and declared himself too tired to move on. He helped his limping friends into a cab.

When Sherlock and John awoke, it was to a brand new video posted to John's blog--of them struggling through a karaoke duet and making complete fools of themselves while Greg laughed heartily in the background.


	29. Doing Something Sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2009
> 
> Sherlock: 31  
> John: 34

Shortly after John rang the bell, Lestrade was at the door.

"Thanks for doing this," he said, leading them through the house to the kitchen, where Julia sat at the table with the twins in their high-chairs.

"Hello, boys," she said, smiling brightly.

"Lock! Lock!" little Amelia shouted jubilantly when she saw them.

"They've just finished dinner," Greg said. "Should pass out in a few hours. If they get thirsty, only water this late. Oh, and Lucy has to have her blue cup."

"But of course." Sherlock smiled at the girls, waved. Lucy giggled.

"Pyjamas are laid out. Amelia has to have her giraffe to sleep. You've got my number."

"Obviously," Sherlock said, and Greg rolled his eyes.

"Good luck," he said to John.

"Oh, he's always a child. I'm used to it. Been dealing with it since he actually _was_ a child."

As soon as Greg and his wife finally made it out of the house, Sherlock was sitting on the floor among blocks and dolls and toy trucks, the girls sat across from him, bouncing excitedly. He rolled one of the trucks over to Amelia, who squealed with glee when it bumped gently against her knee.

"I would ask if you even need me here, but I know you'll be lost at bedtime," John remarked.

"Lost? I won't be lost."

"You're right, perhaps 'lost' isn't the right word. 'Reluctant,' more like."

Sherlock scoffed, but didn't argue. Lucy handed him a baby doll and a blanket for him to swaddle it with.

John sat in the armchair and watched them play. He couldn't help but wonder: if these were just a friend's children, what would Sherlock be like with kids of his own? John thought he knew the answer, but also knew that it was out of the question at this point in their lives; they were too caught up in casework, and neither of them were likely to be willing to give up the thrill of the chase anytime soon. John didn't think they would ever be ready for kids of their own. Maybe Uncle Sherlock was the best they would get.

He was oddly okay with that.

Sherlock didn't just have a way with toddlers. He was equally as great at dealing with teenage clients and month-old infants when he came into contact with them. He had even developed a lovely dynamic with little Archie, after having first met him for the wedding. When John's cousins came up from Devon every year or so, Sherlock would spend hours reading with Archie while John caught up with his mother. The last time they'd visited, Archie had bypassed John altogether and held out his arms for Sherlock.

The thought of Sherlock with children made John grin. Maybe Sherlock was so great with them because he acted so immature himself, sometimes. John thought it was something else. Whenever he observed Sherlock with a child, it was more the way he treated them that earned him a gap-toothed smile; he didn't condescend to them any more than he would a typical adult, and when they did something wrong, he told them why it was harmful instead of simply scolding them. He treated them like little grown-ups, John realized, as he watched Sherlock ranting about the broken wheel of one of the trucks and saw Lucy and Amelia nodding sympathetically.

As the hours passed, Sherlock read and danced and played pretend with the girls while John watched, participating at times, but mostly just content to see Sherlock interacting with them. Eventually, Lucy began to yawn, then Amelia, and Sherlock and John each had an armful of sleepy toddler to carry upstairs. When they were dressed in their nighties and Amelia was snuggled in with her stuffed giraffe toy, John flipped on the nightlight and the monitor before heading back downstairs. Sherlock followed him, and they ended up in the armchair, Sherlock perched on John's lap in a comfortable ball.

"Having fun tonight?" John smiled.

"Of course. I am rather fond of Lestrade's children. They're very bright. I don't know where they get it from."

John rolled his eyes fondly. "Perhaps your influence has made a difference."

"I suppose. Lestrade should thank me for mentoring them."

"They're two," John pointed out. "If they've any incredible deductive skills a few years down the road, then you can demand some credit."

The arm around John's back tensed as Sherlock leaned forward for a kiss. After a moment, he suddenly said, "Do you want children, John?"

John was beyond being startled by Sherlock's scattered thoughts. "Maybe. Someday."

Sherlock laid his head on John's shoulder. "Yes. Maybe."

"I think I rather like your experiments in the kitchen, as much as I complain about them. And we can't just force a child on Mrs. H when we're on a case."

"So...maybe, someday, when we're no longer able to chase criminals and I can't see through my microscope well enough to justify a toxic kitchen."

John chuckled. Sherlock's curls were wrapped around his fingers tenderly. "By then it might be better to just get a dog."

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "A dog?"

John smiled.

"What would we call a dog?" Sherlock wondered.

"I dunno. But we've got time to come up with a name." John stopped, considered the man who was sat in his lap. "Unless you come home with a puppy one day this week."

"I won't."

"At least clean up your experiments. And clear it with Mrs. Hudson."

"I'm not going to just go out and get a dog."

"Good."

Sherlock smirked. "I'll have to find a good breed for us, first."

John groaned.


	30. Doing Something Hot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2010
> 
> Sherlock: 32  
> John: 35

There was the adrenaline-fueled post-case shag, and the lazy Sunday morning love-making session, and everything in between. Any one of them was perfectly acceptable in John's opinion, in any way, shape, or form.

Sherlock, however, preferred spontaneity.

He was constantly worming his way into John's showers, or feeling him up at crime scenes, or jumping him at the breakfast table. Not that John was complaining--no, that wasn't it at all. Even if it did lead to some interesting conversations.

"Could you boys keep it down? I was trying to read last night," Mrs. Hudson would complain.

"Must you really be so blatant with your sexual encounters?" Mycroft would ask, exasperated.

"There is a man lying dead _right there._ You're fondling each other in the presence of a _corpse_ ," Lestrade would say incredulously.

Each response was met with varying degrees of embarrassment--mostly on John's part. But that didn't mean he was going to put a stop to it anytime soon.

So when after leaving Molly's birthday party, Sherlock sunk too his knees as soon as the front door was shut, John wasn't about to object.

"Jesus, not even gonna _try_ and make it up the stairs this time, are we?" He smirked, but it quickly melted when Sherlock nuzzled at his crotch.

"Is that a problem?"

John didn't get to answer. They heard Mrs. Hudson bustling through to the hall, and Sherlock shot to his feet, but not without giving the front of John's trousers a quick, covert stroke. John kicked him.

"Oh, hello, boys," she greeted them. "How was it?"

"It was great, Mrs. H."

"Yes. Quite the event. Lestrade went home in stitches."

"I can imagine. Well, it's good to hear you had fun."

"Good night, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said. It was almost a command.

She raised a knowing eyebrow. "Good night."

She wasn't even halfway back to her flat before John found himself being dragged up the stairs to their own sitting room. Sherlock left him in the doorway, but sprinted to the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Ah, the other thing Sherlock couldn't get enough of.

John smiled as he pulled off his jumper and started unbuttoning his shirt, headed toward the sound of the running tap. He'd barely made it out of his pants before Sherlock's hand stuck out and pulled him under the spray with such force that he almost didn't have the presence of mind to step over the shower's ledge.

"Now, about that," Sherlock muttered, and dropped to his knees again, this time brushing his lips softly along John's torso as he did. John's head thumped against the tile at the sensation of Sherlock's mouth against his bare skin. It was a feeling he'd never get used to, never get tired of--Sherlock always made sure its familiarity was offset by something incredibly unique each time. This time, he dug his fingers into John's hips and tapped out a specific rhythm with his kisses.

John's gasps turned into groans; he went weaker and weaker in the knees until he was only still upright by the grace of Sherlock's fingertips, still gripping his hips and pressing them back against the wall. He hardly noticed the water making its way across his shoulders and down his back.

These were precisely the reasons Sherlock liked spontaneity, and his moans only sped things along. Before they knew it, John was sinking down to sit on the floor next to where Sherlock still knelt, slack-jawed and wobbly.

John pulled him closer and rubbed gentle circles against his back.

Sherlock sighed, contentment weighing down his eyelids. "That was a good one."

"Hmm," John agreed.

"We should probably get to bed," Sherlock suggested.

"We haven't washed yet," John teased, knowing full well that wasn't what they'd been doing in the shower in the first place.

Sherlock shook his head and grinned. "Not necessary. Bed."

"But it's so far," John protested in jest.

Sherlock kissed him, at the same time reaching out to stop the water. "Come on." He made himself stand and held out a hand to help John.

John took it. "Whatever you say, Honeybee."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've stuck with me, thank you. If you've just read it all the way through for the first time, thank you. Also, thank you to [Bella](http://alovelypsychopath.tumblr.com/), who I should probably thank more often because she tolerates my rants about AU ideas and my writer's block breakdowns, as well as me spoiling my own stories for her.
> 
> This was incredibly fun, and throughout it, I've gotten ideas for other prompts that could fall into another 30 Day OTP Challenge. Maybe one day I'll make that list and follow through with it. For now, though, I've had a blast with this story, and I can't actually believe I started it a month ago. It's gonna be so weird not to have this daily responsibility to distract me from my real-life responsibilities...
> 
> Meanwhile, I'd love to see you on Tumblr. I'm [holdencaulfieldin221b](http://holdencaulfieldin221b.tumblr.com/). And that sounds like a self-promo, but it's not. I want to get to know the people who actually read my stuff. It's so important to me knowing that there are actual faces and personalities to the usernames.
> 
> Aaaaand this note got really long, but in my defense, this is the first big project I've finished. I have so many half-finished AUs and WIPs that this is really something unbelievable. Thanks for sharing that with me.


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